Three rings to rule them all
by Hedera
Summary: Sometimes even a victory in battle is not good enough...Why is Gandalf still having black thoughts after the elves' victory against the orcs? And what will be the fate of the last surviving wood elves, the Mirkwood being lost? FINAL CHAPTER UP!
1. Default Chapter

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**Before you read this story:**

-Please keep in mind that my mother tongue is (swiss) german

-It's an AU story, so the geographical locations, some of the names and even the character'  behaviour  will  not always be fitting.

-No one ever accused me to be short. So prepare for a very long story (with an equally long introduction) but don't be afraid, there will be more action soon.

-It's my first ever posted fanfic. So if you can spare any minute, REVIEW! (Wrong spelling, odd constructions, logical mistakes, your opinion, anything!)

**To Daylight: **Thanks a lot for your review! Due to the magic word :"try .doc" I finally found out how to fix the paragraphes of my chapters!!! Thanks again to Guinevere and Pencil Bob and Artemisa who suggested I should do that. I just didn´t find out how thus far!

_It's shortly before the One is discovered. Already dark clouds are gathering over Middle-Earth, and their threat is felt by the wiser ones, though even they do not anticipate what is in store for them. Gandalf the Grey is one of them. He seeks to reunite the races of Middle-Earth against future evil, and asks the dwarves, men and the elves to a council, which takes place in Rivendell. But his voice goes unheard; for the mistrust between these different races is deep, and they do not want to change their way of life just because of an invisible threat._

Sentences in italic: Thoughts only, not spoken aloud.

**Evil's stirring**

** I. **

Gandalf the Grey stood on the wooden terrace near Elrond's house from where he could overlook most of Rivendell. It's marvellous beauty always had had a strange effect on the old wizard, filling him both with awe and a silent sadness, a mixture of feelings he seldom felt nowadays. He sighed. He supposed it was the touch of eternity and immortality of the elven´s realm which filled his heart with melancholy, for he was old and felt –like men do- far from immortal. Especially today.

Or did he already anticipate a menace, a future doom creeping towards Rivendell?

He sighed again and gathered up his cloak, for the darkness was falling and brought the cooler night air with it. _"Gandalf, you fool_" he told himself. _"You're really getting sentimental and senile; and distrustful, as they told you today at the council. Perhaps you really should retire early. Perhaps then you will stop seeing the signs of evil stirring everywhere…" _

His companion, which had cast him a glance from time to time, finally spoke up, interrupting his dark thoughts. "I see the lines of sorrow on your face, Gandalf." he said. "Is the threat to Middle-Earth that imminent that it will not you a moment of peace even here in Rivendell?" Gandalf turned to look at the speaker. "I don't know, Aragorn, heir of Ilsidur." he said gravely. "I don't know and still I feel the hidden menace to us all. I had put my hope on the council of Elrond, yet.." 

Aragorn still looked at him with a piercing stare as if to read the other's mind. The wizard didn't continue. "What did you hope, Gandalf?" Aragorn pressed on. "Elves, dwarves and men... there hasn't been an alliance between these races for an eternity. Perhaps…If you had any proof of an imminent invasion, an army invading…" He shook his head. "But after the discussions today I'm in serious doubt that even in that case there could be something like an ally…"

** II. **

"Oh, there are proofs. The invasion you're asking for has already begun." another voice said behind them, a proud, angry voice. "Don't you see it, Strider? Orcs, hundreds, thousands of them, are marching against Gondor, day after day, and we fight them, we, the men from Gondor, but there are many orcs nowadays, and we loose warriors, every day more. That's why I came here: To seek help for the people of Gondor. And while you have your talks and councils here, men – my men ! – are spilling their blood to protect Middle-Earth. And still there's no help, neither from dwarves nor from elves. Dwarves and elves ! Ha ! The further to stupid to care for something else but their mines, the others to damned proud and heartless to care for the fate of the mortals! It's also for their protection that my warriors die! Who else will retain the orcs if we don't do it?"

"It's the pain in you which makes you say such things, not wisdom." Gandalf said softly. "I understand your anger. Believe me, son of Gondor, I long for an alliance as well as you do…" Again he was interrupted by Boromir. "An alliance? We do not need an alliance." The warrior stated proudly. "No councils, no discussions. What Gondor needs is an army which protects it's women and children, it's men, it's white towers, it's golden fields. We already have paid our price... But they still don't care, these damned wood-creatures and the gnomes! Shall I march with a halfling´s army against the orcs?" 

"Be silent." Gandalf said between clenched teeth. "For we are not as alone as you might think, Boromir." Boromir took a step backwards, and Aragorn felt involuntary for his sword. 

"You have keen eyes, old man." A voice said from the trees beyond them. Aragorn gripped his sword tighter, and Boromir narrowed his eyes. A silent form now detached from the shadows of the trees and jumped light-footed on the platform on which they stood. He didn't seem to notice the threatening postures of Aragorn and Boromir, and turned to Gandalf. "More keen than it's good for me, Gandalf the Grey." 

Before them stood an elf, wearing the green and brown of the wood elves, and the craft of his tunic clearly showed that he actually was a Mirkwood elf. He was young, at least for an elf, as far as one could see in the darkness, and his face was of the ethereal beauty all elves seemed to posses, and his hair shone like silver in the pale moonlight.

"The nightingales betrayed your presence, Legolas Greenleaf, Son of Thranduil." Gandalf said. "And now speak, Prince of Mirkwood : Why are you hiding yourself in the trees like a creature with evil intentions?" 

"I have no evil things in my mind." The elf calmly replied. "I came without a weapon. I wished to speak to you, Wizard." He threw a glance at Boromir and Aragorn, which stood at attention, and for an instance there was something like a mocking smile on his lips. With a shrug Aragorn released the hilt of his sword, and Boromir, although hesitating, followed suit. 

"My father believes that Middle-Earth is not threatened immediately, Gandalf the Grey." the elf continued. "He thinks that you have your own plans concerning your ally of elves, men, and dwarves, plans you don't want to reveal to us." His blue eyes studied Gandalf´s face. "For the wisdom of the wizards is deep, and no one can read their minds. But still…" he hesitated a moment "…but still I think I saw true sorrow in your eyes as you warned us from Sauron." Gandalf sighed. "Deep is the gap that separates the creatures of Middle-Earth. Mistrust and fear reign, and yet only in unification there could be hope. Perhaps the deeds of evil are already done, more than we suspect, for the dark seed of mistrust flowering even in the hearts of the elves does not seem natural to me. I assure you, Prince of Mirkwood, I have no intentions in my heart than the well-being of Middle-Earth."

"I believe you, wizard." Legolas answered. "And I believe it would be wise from my father to send some elf-archers to Gondor." He looked at Boromir. "Although I'm a heartless elf…" the Prince turned to go"…I´ll go and try to talk to my father. Farewell, Gandalf the Grey, Strider and Boromir, Son of Gondor!" He disappeared in the trees, as silently as he had come. 

** III. **

"What was this?" Boromir asked no one in particular. "The elves will send us help? Us, the mortals?" Legolas seemed to have heard him, for he turned one last time. "Don't hold your hopes high." he said. "For I'm not Thranduil's first born." 

"What did he mean by that?" Aragorn silently asked while Boromir mesmerised stared where he had last seen the elf." "Exactly what he said." Gandalf answered thoughtfully. "Thranduil will not listen to him. He has already made his choice, and Legolas knows it. Wise as the king of Mirkwood may be, he's an elf, not touched by the fate of others, for he lives in a world where the transience, the pain, the hate and the love of men have little meaning." He turned to Boromir. "Don't judge the elves for what makes elves out of them. They don't really understand men, not even Legolas, who showed something like pity here. My only hope is, for the elves themselves and for middle-earth, that this will not be the downfall of us all." This last words the wizard spoke merely towards the night. Boromir silently hung his head.

Finally, after they had waited a long time for the return of the elf, Boromir retired for the night, and also Aragorn left and went back to his room. He shortly nodded towards the wizard, but didn't say anything, for the old man seemed deep in thoughts. Indeed Gandalf held his head lowered and didn't move an inch. 

But the second Aragorn left the terrace, his eyes searched the place where he thought the elf waiting at least for two hours now. Indeed, a shadow was now moving there, and Legolas Greenleaf joined him. "I bring evil tidings, Gandalf." He said. His voice sounded untouched, he didn't look at the wizard, held his face in the dark. "My father and his council decided to leave tomorrow. They wont send any archers to Gondor. Deliver my greetings to the man from Gondor." Then, more silently, he added. "And my regret." He turned to leave, but Gandalf held him back. "Evil tidings indeed, Prince of Mirkwood." He said and stepped forth so he could see the elf's face in the moonlight. "Evil tidings indeed, when an elf raises her hand against another elf." 

On Legolas left cheek there was a red mark, and his lower lip seemed split. The prince moved out of Gandalf´s grip as if he had been burned. "This is nothing, old man!" he said. His voice had lost every hint of gentleness. "It is nothing." he repeated, more calmly now, he seemed to want to ad something more, but then he went silent. Catlike he turned and tried to leave, but Gandalf still held him in a surprisingly strong grip. "Prince Legolas." he said sternly. "Did your father hit you?" Even in the darkness he could feel the distress the elf radiated, and this was alarming, for elves usually didn't show their feelings.

"He was very angry." Legolas finally said. He still seemed quite shaken after the confrontation he had had with his father. "I'm sorry." Gandalf said. "I didn't think…" "Don't pity me." Legolas said coldly and freed himself from the wizards grip with a swift movement. "You have your own problems to solve, Gandalf the Grey." And he disappeared as fast as he had come.

Aragorn, who had overheard the conversation, stepped out in the dark to join the wizard. The old man, only slightly surprised, lifted an eyebrow. Aragorn flashed him an almost boyish smile. "The nightingales stopped singing." he said, but then he became serious. "You're right, Gandalf." He finally said. "I do not need to see any proof that something bad is going to happen. I can feel it in the air clearly now, as well as you do."

It took two days for their fears to come true, more cruelly than they would have imagined in their wildest dreams. Evil made it's long prepared first move – and landed a deadly blow deep in the heart of middle-earth.

**To be continued...**


	2. Nightfall

**Nightfall**

** I.**

It was still dark when they left Rivendell. The air was already filled with sweet scents from awakening flowers, and the birds were singing in the trees, but the elven party of traveller's mood was dark. Elrond had come to dismiss them, but he had been short, and Legolas knew that even his father doubted his decision-their decision- not to send warriors to Gondor, although he didn't show it. 

Only when they were already two hours from Rivendell, the king's mood seemed to improve, and he started to talk quietly to the servant riding beside him. Legolas was glad to see this. Not that he liked the servant his father talked to, a mere old, grey and (in his opinion) creepy human which had dealt with diamonds and knew everything about jewellery and therefore was in favour by his father, but he was content that at least his father wasn't brooding anymore. 

For they had made their choice, and there was no use of regret it yet, and only the future could prove them right – or wrong. And finally, Legolas thought, his father maybe just was glad to leave the court of Rivendell with his highly educated and civilised inhabitants. He felt a smile creep on his lips. Yes, the thought was not bad. Perhaps his father, king of all wood elves in mirkwood, had feared the role he had to play in Rivendell, the role of the wise, silent and patient elf, and glad that it was over. 

Thranduil had a lot of virtues. He had a big heart, he loved the beauty of life (much to his wife's sorrow), he was a great warrior, quick in love and hate and very straightforward. But wisdom (as Elrond may would define it) and patience he did not have, and in the ways of diplomacy he was not used, so the days in Rivendell with their endless councils must have been quite a torture for him. There had always been some kind of rivalry between Mirkwood and Rivendell, and in the eyes of the Rivendell-inhabitants, Thranduil surely was the perfect wood-elf, an undereducated savage, grudgingly admired for his virtues in battle but not more. 

Legolas smile grew wider. He knew what the mirkwood-elves thought about the Rivendell-elves. Too civilised, even decadent, already distant from true nature (which meant forests, of course) lulling their senses in a too peaceful surrounding, that were just the most uttered issues. 

He watched his father closer, and it seemed to him that the king indeed seemed longing to return to Mirkwood, and Legolas had to admit to himself that he felt the same. There was a silent, yet deep love for his home in his heart, for it's trees, it's waters, it's creatures, and he too longed for the green, protecting canopies they soon would reach. Perhaps he (and especially his father) was just homesick, and the queer feelings they all seemed to harbour would be lost once they arrived. 

** II.**

They rode quite fast and didn't make a stop for the whole day until darkness drew near. Then they let rest their horses and made a camp for the night. No one of them seemed to require sleep, and so they sat beside the fire, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, and quite refreshed they went on with the first rays of sunlight the next morning. 

Again a wonderful spring morning awaited them, and the fresh scents and cheerful sound of the spring's mighty return filled their hearts with joy. From time to time one of the riders broke out in a song, and some of the others joined him, as far as they knew the words, and the already powerful sun warmed their faces. Maybe it was the beauty of this day, maybe their hurry to reach Mirkwood which made them inattentive. 

Otherwise they would have felt the suffocating presence of evil, and the foul smell of the orcs would have reached their noses earlier. But this was not the case, and the day, which had started with joy and happiness, ended with tragedy and grief. 

** III.**

Two of the guards fell instantly from their horses, black orc's arrows deeply imbedded in their chests, and two further were killed seconds later, when a new wave of black arrows hit them. 

Legolas saw all this happen like in slow motion, both his heartbeat and the death-cries of his comrades suddenly seemed to ring in his ears, and a suffocating feeling of fear and threat was in his throat. The elf's horses, although well dressed even in battle, neighed like mad and tried to turn from the unexpected danger, which probably saved their life since they took the next orc's arrows. 

"Everyone back!" his father was yelling, and his calm voice brought back Legolas senses. He ducked deep on the horseback and forced it to walk backwards, whispering calming words into it's ears, and after what seemed an eternity, he was able to turn the animal. 

After a few steps backwards he turned again, his heart now filled with cold anger and hate, his hands not shivering as he drew his bow, ready to kill every orc that came into reach. After an instant he was joined by three guards, the human and his father. He bit his lip. 

This meant that six elves had fallen by the malicious orc's attack. But it was not time to grief yet, for they had to fight for their lives. They still didn't see their attackers clearly, nor could they count their number, for the orc's were still hiding in the forest. For some split seconds, neither the attackers, nor their victims moved.

Then Legolas horse broke down under him with an almost human whimpering sound, for a spear had embedded itself deep in his flesh. Legolas fell hard, but swiftly came to his feet. There was a hideous yell of triumph from the trees behind them, and now some orcs came forth, bloodlust written all over their ugly faces, and they attacked the retreating elves. 

Again it was his father whose presence of mind saved them. "Up!" he commanded. "There's no cover there, but at least we have the advantage of height." Only five of them made it up the hills, out of the range of the orcs momentarily, and none of them seemed unscathed, but now they had gained some precious seconds to shield themselves with their horses and to draw their bows. 

The orc groups had now joined themselves at the food of the hills, they were at least twenty, and they seemed very destined to finish their task and killing off all the elves. They advanced slowly, shields carefully lifted (for even the orcs knew the elves reputation with the bow) like a black avalanche of evil, crushing everything under it's feet. 

Thranduil laughed. It was an unhappy yet determined laugh. "Let's show them how expensive elves sell their lives." He hissed. "The fools! Against four elven warriors! On my command… One, two, three!" 

And the elvenbows sang their deadly song, over and over, and some of the attacking orcs fell with hideous screams, but still some of them moved on, for their armour was thick, and they knew to use their shields. Soon the elves ran short of arrows. 

Steadily the orcs drew nearer. There were at least six of them alive, and still they showed no sign of fear, no hint of retreat though their ambush had failed, and this was unusual for orcs in these times. Besides him Briphtil, his father's head bodyguard, shot their last arrow. 

With a sigh he drew his long elfish knife. "Just come here, my pretty little friends." He murmured. "I'll give you a warm greeting." And with this he dived forward towards the orcs. They leaped forward, too, and now Thranduil joined Briphtil, sword drawn, and Legolas and the other guard followed suit. 

Still all their bravery could have been in vain, for the orcs still had their arrows, but they got unexpected help. One of the guard, left for dead, had only been hurt badly, and now he stood proudly erected behind the orcs. He still had his bow, and three of them fell never knowing what had hit them. 

The other three orcs turned, and one of them actually managed to shoot one single arrow against the new enemy, but then he was killed by Thranduil and Briphtil within seconds. The guard which had saved them, smiled before his knees buckled under him and he fell on the grass. 

****

** IV.**

Legolas took a deep breath, and for a moment his knees felt weak, too, as a wave of relief washed over him. They had survived. At least some of them. Then he forced himself to move. Perhaps he could do at least something for the man which had probably saved them all. 

His father and Briphtil simultaneously gave a yell of triumph before they joined Legolas to examine the fallen warrior. 

But alas- there wasn't much to do: The brave elf had used all her strength to save his king, before he finally succumbed his wounds, or a poison since orc's arrows often were poisoned. Briphtil swore silently, and Legolas hung his head. Six elves had been killed, but what for? Surely they had repaid the orcs, for now twenty of them lay slain on the floor, but still they had had a considerably loss. And the attack had taken place very, very close to the Mirkwood…The orcs were getting more audacious from day to day! 

Thranduil raised first. He turned and went back to their two remaining horses, for they needed to hurry up, since they didn't know if there were more orcs hiding somewhere. The human was still hiding there, he wasn't a warrior and had therefore not taken place in the fight. Briphtil still knelt and carefully, gently laid his officer in a more decent position. Legolas watched him, still physically and mentally exhausted, and so both of them didn't see what was happening next. They just heard it. 

** V.**

Thranduil's scream cut the air, more surprised or angry than painfilled, followed by a silent gasp and the neighing of a horse. What they saw let their blood run cold. Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, had fallen to his knees, with his hands clasping his chest. Even from his distance Legolas could see the dagger protruding from his father's body with brutal clarity. Again Thranduil gave an angry cry, then he fell face forward on the grass with a sickening thud. 

Both of them stood and watched paralysed as the servant, face contorted in fear, tried to drive on one of the horses to flee from his crime, in vain, for the horses educated by elves, only bore humans if told so by their masters. He gripped something in his fist, which additionally bothered him, and even though he actually managed to get away a few metres, Briphtils first arrow, taken from a fallen orc got him right through his throat, and he didn't even cry out as he fell from the horse's back in an ungracious heap. 

Briphtil didn't give him a second glance, but he let his bow fall and followed Legolas which had already run to his father's side. Neither he nor Legolas at this point thought about the humans motifs to attack his master, nor did they care what the man even in death, desperately gripped to. They didn't think about how desperate one must be, being an elderly, weak human to attack an elf and try to flee with his horse, for the servant must have known that he wouldn't succeed. It was fear which had driven the servant to his crime, fear from his true master, but they didn't know this yet, they did not care, and it only made sense to them much later. 

Legolas fell to his knees down besides his father, never tearing his eyes from the still form of the king or the red blossom rapidly forming on his chest. Something in his throat hurt terribly, and he felt the bitter stinging of tears in his eyes, but he didn't want to cry, not here, not before his father, not as long as there was any hope left. 

Frantically he tried to open his father's tunic, but the elven king caught his hand's. "Don't." he said weekly. "Don't. I know it's too late." 

"But…" "Legolas…" his father murmured sternly. "I'm going to… to the shadows." He gave a short laugh, then coughed a little. "Who would have thought…stabbed by a mere human…" His eyes closed. His breathing became more laboured. "Father!" The anxious exclamation would have roused a stone. Thranduil again opened his eyes, his gaze focused on the face of his son. "Tell Saldir…tell Saldir that he is my heir." he murmured. "And Elwyne his second in command. And…that they have been good sons. All of you…good sons…" 

His strength was fading fast. Every breath now seemed to be an effort, and there was a painful sound in his throat all the time. "The ring.." he whispered at last. "It's a… for Saldir…here, on my chest…bring it to Saldir…Legolas…ring." His head lolled to one side. Thranduil, king of mirkwood, had just taken his last breath. 

"Father!" Legolas cried out loud and buried his face in his fathers tunic, while tears ran down his face freely. He wept, trapped in this kind of grief which makes you forget time, yourself, the world around you out of pain. His heart just didn't accept the fact of his father's death, but his mind already knew that it was true, and no tears, no grief would make it undone. Legolas didn't know it yet, but he already felt a touch of the pain which lessened the elves inner light and killed them in the end if it didn't stop in time.

** VI.**

Sometime later he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his face. It was Briphtil. He looked very grim (even more grimly than usual) and his eyes were red. This was strangely comforting to Legolas, and he tried to catch his breath and to compose himself a little bit. He didn't ask about the creature that had killed his father. He didn't want to know, and he was sure Briphtil had taken care of it. "This is one of the darkest hours Mirkwood has seen." he said gravely. "We have lost one of our greatest king. I mourn with you, Prince Legolas." Legolas nodded, still too numb to speak. 

"But it is getting dark, and we have no possibility to give the last honours to our fallen comrades. We have one horse left. If you ride swiftly, you will reach the first of our outposts in three hours to get fresh horses and to spread the evil news. I will stay here and watch over your father, and no evil thing will lay hand on him as long as I'm alive, until you are back and we can bring our fallen home." 

Stiffly Legolas got up. Briphtil was right. Though the pain of loss still ripped unbearably through him, he had to act now more like a prince, like a leader. His brothers and all elves of the Mirkwood needed to know about Thranduil's death. And the bodies of his comrades needed to be tended. Later, after he had done his duties, there would be time for grief. "Thank you, Briphtil." he mumbled, his throat was terribly hoarse. "Your council is wise. May your night be free of more evil." 

Briphtil locked eyes with him. "Your's too, my prince." He said. "I'll pray for your safely return." With this words he threw his sword and stood before Thranduil, a still and erect guardian, and very silently sang a lament of loss, and waited for Legolas or the orcs to return.

** VII.**

Legolas later remembered very little of his ride through the night, for his thoughts were shattered by all the evil that had befallen them in just one evening. Or was it the new horror which awaited him that made him forget the old one? His normally accurate senses must have been very dulled this night from grief and emotional exhaustion, for he noticed it very late. When he saw it he stopped his horse and stared in numb disbelief. Not far from him, in the heart of the Mirkwood, there was a roaring fire, and it's orange light and it's smoke could be seen from far. Mirkwood was in flames. With a cry of desperation Legolas drove on his horse.

**To be continued...**


	3. Mirkwood lost

**Mirkwood lost**

** I. **

The fire crept up another trunk. Slowly, yet unstoppable, it ate into the bark of the tree, found new nourishment and climbed higher and higher. The smooth, refusing surface of the beech on which it fed offered a great deal of resistance. There was not much left of the flames when they arrived at the top of the tree, but then they reached the leafs which brought them to new life. Hissing, because they were still in full sap, they fell victim to the fire, and soon the whole treetop was in flames. The fire went on with it's work until there was only a bizarre, blackened stump left of the beech. 

Then the time was come to creep on the forest floor, to feed on the dried leaves of last year and to search for another tree. At first there had been elves which tried to fight it back, especially when it feasted on their king's wooden halls. They had thrown water and dug drains to deprive it from it's nourishment. But soon they had stopped because of the arriving of the black creatures. There had been tumults, riots and fights, but nothing that disturbed the fire. And soon there had been more food. Either elves or the black creatures – both of them were inflammable.

** II. **

Soon the smoke became thicker, and small pieces of ember rained now down on horse and rider. They burned up on the coat of the animal, laid themselves on Legolas' head, shoulders, face and hands and made breathing painful. 

They were forerunners of the fire front which fast approached. Now one could also hear it. A weird hissing, cracking and snarling filled the air, the sound of burning wood and dying animals, as men might would say; the groaning of the trees being consumed by greedy flames, as an elf would put it. Like the embers the sound seemed to surround Legolas and hampered his perception. 

Instinctively he felt the urge to cover his ears, to close his eyes and thus keep out the reality of the fire, but even that would not have helped since he could feel it. The mortal fear of the animals and trees which awaited their destruction was almost physically noticeable for him. 

Like many wood elves Legolas was connected to the creatures of the forests in a way humans could not understand, and so he now had to share their pain and fear. It was almost too much for him. 

The horse, close to panic, seemed to feel the same. With a bristled coat, wildly rolling eyes and shaking it pranced on the spot and was not easily persuaded to go on. In spite of the smoke Legolas took a deep breath to collect himself, for now he had to pass the fire front, and for this he needed to have his wits about one. He had to convince his horse to gallop straight towards the fire, he needed to find a gap between the burning trees, and he needed to be fast. Then he would manage to come trough the flames without much harm. Only the brightly blazing flames were really dangerous – right after the front it would be bearable. Legolas got a better hold on the brittle and looked searchingly around. Then he made his decision, and with a rapid blow in the flanks he chased his horse right into the flames.

Greedy the flames grabbed for the horse and it's rider, scorched skin, hair and clothes, but only for a moment, then the sea of flames was already behind them. Instead of blazing flames a bizarre world of charred tree stumps, burned earth and silently glowing embers awaited them. A death world, which did not allow it's intruder any orientation. Legolas, who knew Mirkwood, or at least this part of Mirkwood, like the back of his hand, was unsure where he was, perhaps for the first time in his life. 

He reined up his horse. The poor animal, which now literally walked on charring ashes, was not willing to stop and with the instinct of animals it tried to get away from the fire. But as much as Legolas looked around, he had no clue in which direction he should go on. After a few seconds he shrugged his shoulders and directed his horse more southwards. Sooner or later he would join up with other elves. And his father's wooden halls were big enough not to be missed anyway.

** III. **

Legolas didn't join up any elves. He also didn't found anything to orient himself although his senses told him that his father's halls couldn't be that far. Only the smoke, thinner now, and the diminishing heat told him that he was already quite far from the fire front. A black, vast, destroyed nightmare of a forest surrounded him, completely bare of life. 

It mirrored Legolas' own feelings: A gloomy cloud of hopelessness had descended on his heart which made it difficult for him to do something, to see some sense in riding on. His father dead, Mirkwood burned down, the sylvan elves –in the best case- robbed of their homes and scattered. 

For the first time in his life Legolas felt a touch of the endless sadness which could drive even the immortal elves in the arms of death by attacking their innermost nature. Instinctively he knew that it was not the time to give in to this sadness, and if to escape physically from this overwhelming feelings he maltreated his horse again with his heels. 

Taken by surprise, the animal made a few fast jumps - and almost crashed overrode a black creature which had waited in the dark. 

The angry cry of the orc mingled with the shrill neighing of the horse. It was difficult to say which of them was more surprised to meet an enemy, but it was the elf who was the first to recover from it's surprise. Legolas had the advantage to draw his sword on a horse's back, and the orc seemed hampered by something he held in his claws- in any case he fell with a pierced chest in the ashes before his sword was halfway out. Fortunately, for the Orc had not been alone.

With chilling battlecries, teeth bared in their ugly faces, two more warriors attacked Legolas immediately. On seeing them a wave of anger and hate filled the elf's heart. What evil things had this creatures in mind? Why were they in the Mirkwood? They might had taken advantage of the confusion caused by the fire to search for easy prey, or even worse things... 

All this thoughts went through his head in less than a second, and they banished every hint of sadness, turned him into a merciless warrior. All his grief, his sorrow which had dominated him were now changed to hate and bloodlust – both Orcs, surely not bad fighters themselves, fell only a few seconds later. Their blood dried up hissing on the gleaming embers. 

Breathing heavily Legolas looked down on his enemies and tried to control the fierceness of the feelings which had reigned him a moment ago. For some seconds he had felt a pure desire to kill which left him now confused and somewhat ashamed. He almost dropped his sword, slippery with blood, but then he clenched it's hilt frantically, while in his head there were suddenly new horrible visions. Where the orcs really just looking for elfish arms or other valuable things? Or had they even caused – in one way or another – the devastating fire? And where were the other elves? Again he felt a wave of hate arise. It was an overwhelming feeling that threatened to choke him. Whatever the orcs had in mind, they would pay dearly for it. They would pay. 

** IV. **

Legolas didn't have to go on searching for long. Just after a few hundred yards he heard the clang of metal, cries, and the triumphant yells of orcs. His stomach tightened, and his horror visions became more concrete. 

More orcs. And the noise was unmistakable: There was a battle taking place. From all his weapons Legolas only had his sword left, and two of his knives. But still he hurried on. He didn't fear for his life. All that counted for him was his hate which screamed for orc blood. Probably it was this hate which saved Legolas' life in this night. 

The darkness was already driven away by the first signs of dawn when he reached the source of the noise. At the first glimpse he could detect 15 orcs, in full armour, armed with swords, bows, some with spears. They attacked a total of about 10 elves. Legolas knew their leader well, but there was no time for greeting formalities right now. 

The elves were in trouble, even though they fought bravely. Only few of them seemed to have any arrows left. Additionally, the fire had robbed them of their allies, the trees. Without this backing the elves' biggest advantage in war, the long bow, could not be used effectively. As fast as an elf may be with his bow: Without any protection the moment of taking aim made him very vulnerable. At the moment only three archers seemed to be on their feet. They stood back to back to protect each other, and they sent arrow after arrow against the advancing orcs.

They had to be careful though not to hit accidentally one of their own which were caught up in man-against-man fights, for the elven warriors, darkened by dust and soot, seemed tired. Their agility and fastness in the fight had visibly lessened. It was only a question of time till the orcs, although clearly decimated, would be victorious. 

The flame of hate was again in his eyes as Legolas rushed forward with a loud battle-cry right into the battle. He was in the orcs' back and had killed three of them before they even knew what had hit them. His arrival caused something akin to panic among this nightmarish creatures for they seemed to await more attacking elves. But they regained composure fast enough, and the biggest among them, a giant with reddish long hair and strangely red eyes, raced towards Legolas, sword drawn, and two others aimed their bows on him. Legolas saw it out of the corner of his eyes, but he couldn't really react on this thread because the attacking orc demanded his full concentration. He was incredibly fast and equally strong. 

Legolas, who did not have a shield, parried the orcs' first stroke with his sword. The blow which went through his right arm and shoulder in the same second was so painful he couldn't suppress a sigh, and under the fierceness of the attack he fell to his knees. A second wild stroke he avoided in the same way, under the third his sword broke. The orc yelled triumphantly and lifted his sword again. This time Legolas fell to the floor intentionally, dived away under the blade, rolled around and came up to his adversary's side. He was just in time to avoid the next blow, and this gave him the time to reach for one of his long knives. None of them would be a match for a sword, but if the orc would not be careful, he soon would taste one of them. 

Legolas suddenly felt sick, and the small hairs on his neck prickled. The fight against this orc, although it had not lasted for more than a minute, seemed endless to him, and the two orcs with the bows he had lost from sight. They must be somewhere though, and surely they were ready to shoot at any second...A new blow, a new side-step. This time he was not fast enough. The sword opened his shoulder, draw blood and sent horrible waves of pain through his body together with a wave of rage. Out from his kneeling position Legolas threw himself against the orc. He hit him at the height of his hips. The enemy, surprised by the attack, fell to the floor, but he gripped his sword tightly and raised it again to beat his smaller enemy away from him. This was exactly what Legolas had counted on, and with a quick, experienced stroke he cut of the orc's sword hand. The maimed orc howled, a sound which quickly turned into a cough when Legolas slid his throat. The blood of his first adversary still on his knife, Legolas wildly looked around for a new enemy. 

The other elves seemed to have restored their strength because of his arriving, for suddenly there were not too many orcs left. They had ridden themselves of the two orcs with the bows, which had made the mistake to give their full attention solely to the new attacker – a mistake which both of them paid with an arrow protruding from their throat. All the other orcs seemed to be involved in man-to-man-fights, so again Legolas could kill two of them without much trouble. Just as he gave his attention to a third enemy he felt a move behind his back. 

The elf fighting which fought there before had fallen, and her killer had found a new intended victim: Legolas. His first blow came too deep, for he was small for an orc, and it hit Legolas, which instinctively had already turned halfway around, at the hip. 

This time he couldn't suppress a small cry, and his knees buckled. Automatically he made a fall out of it and this way avoided the next stroke which was aimed much higher. His left hand searched for some of the hot ashes lying everywhere. Still in the move of turning around he threw it into the face of his enemy. The orc was blinded only for a few moments, since Legolas had not aimed too precisely, but his ordeal was enough for Legolas to cut his knees' ligaments. After this it was a piece of cake for the elf, and another orc died, breathing stertorously. With painfilled eyes Legolas got up. His left hip burned like fire, and his right shoulder felt deaf and useless. All the same he turned around very fast, knife arisen, when he felt another move in his back – and stopped a murderous stroke only inches before the face of another elf. 

"Mardin", he said, after he had finally found his voice, and he took a deep breath to compose himself, to banish the waves of anger and adrenaline raging through him. The elf which he had called Mardin had backed away. He was an elderly Lieutenant of the king's guard which now looked quite sorrowful. "Yes, my prince." He said and saw with growing relief how Legolas distorted features slowly relaxed. "The orcs are defeated thanks to your coming, though we paid a high price for it." Except him and Legolas, only five other elves had survived the fight. The others lay dead or dying on the bare ground. 

Legolas, almost stumbling out of tiredness and relief, needed a few seconds before he could utter a coherent sentence: "What happened, Mardin?" he asked. "Where are the other elves?" 

Mardin, very tired, looked at him. He seemed much older since Legolas last had seen him. In the meantime the other elves had gathered around them. They seemed tired, and desperate, too. 

Instead of Mardin, a simple soldier answered. "We don't know." he said. "The fire came as a surprise. And it came from all directions. We parted ourselves to fight it efficiently. Then we were attacked by the orcs and became even more separated..." He quieted. 

Legolas suddenly noticed all of them watching him. They expected him to decide what to do now! Okay, this was simple. The flame of hate answered for him. "Arm yourself and collect your arrows." he said shortly. "Then we will search for other elves. Or other orcs to kill, that is." His commands brought some spirit back to the elves. With an odd feeling of satisfaction Legolas noticed anger and hate arising in the soldiers, too. Mardin seemed to look even darker than before. 

** V. **

Late in the morning they reached the remnants of King Thranduils palace, Legolas and his troop and a few other elves they had found while striding through the destroyed Mirkwood. 

All in all it was a total of about 200 tired, hurt and terribly upset elves which stayed in the ruins of their former homes. There was nothing more than ruins left because of the fire and the plundering orcs. 

Now and then Legolas and his group had met some of them roaming, and all of them were killed unceremoniously. It was an irony of fortune that the orcs died for their greed since their hands full with their prey and thus were not free to reach for weapons. No elf bothered to pick up anything of their prey, and weapons, treasures or other useful things lay now as a grotesque decoration over the bodies of the killed orcs. But most of them had retired at the beginning of dawn, so Legolas and his soldiers concentrated on finding other elves. 

Their search had brought precious little success, and Legolas desperately hoped that there were still more elves somewhere out there. More than the 200 which had been able to save themselves up to now. There were women, children, old and young elves among them, but only about fifty warriors. 

What if the orcs returned the next night? Of course they would be expected this time, but could they be stopped by fifty elves which did not even have much weapons left? No, the orcs would have a damned easy game to finish what they had started last night: The total destruction of the wood elves. 

Again a shadow of deadly sadness fell over him, the same he had felt the night before. It didn't help that the fire, now far away judging by the distant smoke, seemed to have lessened – perhaps the fire had – at last – found a natural end at the shore of one of mirkwood's bigger rivers, it didn't help at all. Against his will he felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he surveyed the forlorn crowd the once so proud wood elves had become. Some of the them slept, completely unaware of what happened around them, exhausted, drained, grateful of the moments of oblivion sleep brought them. Others lay on the floor, hurt and wounded, and others took care of them, but except some water and some pieces of clothes to dress the most awful wounds there was nothing that could be done. What had not fallen victim to the fire had been destroyed or stolen by the orcs. 

Legolas look wandered to his brother, the only one from his brothers and sisters which had emerged yet. Elwyne lay in his immediate vicinity, deeply unconscious, and this was a blessing. A bloodied, maimed mass of flesh – that was all that was left of Elwyne's left leg. So much one could see even through the temporary bandages. He didn't know exactly what had happened to his second-oldest brother. It didn't matter anyway. It did matter however that Elwyne did survive, and it did matter, that he, Legolas, was the only member of the king's family which was present at the moment. The responsibility for what happened next clearly lay in his hand. The responsibility to reign and guide this people. 

"Which people?" a bitter voice in his mind said. "There's only this pitiful crowd left from your people...", and Legolas did nothing to make it quiet. It was right. What was more, the other elves seemed willing to obey his commands, even though he was young, young in elven measurements. Perhaps the devastation of their homeland, the destruction of their own people, the fire, the insidious attack of the orcs and especially the news of the killing of their king had put them into a state where everything was indifferent to them. Legolas didn't really want to know. He felt vastly incompetent. Being the youngest of five brothers, he had never known the burden of responsibility since he was an unlikely candidate for the king's throne. And know every single decision he made would have an enormous impact, perhaps even decide the whole future for his people. 

Of course he had sent hunters in every direction which searched for survivors, and messengers to Rivendell, and he had posted guardians just in case the orcs would even return before the light was gone. But now there were more decisions to be taken. Difficult decisions. Should they stay here, it was most likely that the orcs would return and kill them one after another. Would they hide themselves –where should they hide in the destroyed Mirkwood anyway? – many of the critically wounded would not survive the transport. And a troop of 200 people was most likely to leave a trace even a blind orc could easily follow. 

Suddenly Legolas felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to turn around to know that it belonged to Mardin. He was grateful for the support from the war-horse. The man had stayed at his side since they had first met in the morning. He had insisted that Legolas had his minor wounds bound and that he ate some crumbs of lemba which popped up miraculously. "They will return tonight." he said darkly and thus mirrored Legolas' own thoughts. Legolas nodded. "We have to retire." He said. "To hide women and children. Perhaps we can defend ourselves long enough until we get help from Rivendell." Mardin nodded. Legolas remained silent for a few moments, then he added: "Let's move to the waterfalls. There we will have the hills in our back, and perhaps there will be some intact forest due to the frequent rivers and streams. Some of the caves there may can serve as a hide for the wounded and the ones which are not capable to fight. Furthermore the entrance to the valley of the waterfalls is quite narrow. We may be able to defend it some time. But the valley is also a trap. None of us will survive once we are in it, when we are on our own in this" "Also when we stay here, my prince, none of us will survive." Mardin said quietly and went to tell his soldiers Legolas' orders. 

** VI. **

They reached the waterfalls hours after darkness had fallen. The wounded and their own exhaustion had slowed them down, and the destroyed wood made the journey not easier. As Legolas had suspected, many of the severely wounded elves had died. If they really died being deadly wounded or just out of sadness, no one could tell. 

In silence they had brought the wounded to a natural cave by the waterfalls. Women, children and the old took care of them. They had left 10 soldiers with them to their protection, that was most likely more than they could spare by the defence of the valley. If the Orcs conquered their refuge, this ten warriors wouldn't be able to offer a great deal of resistance, anyway, but Legolas hated to left his charge completely without protection. 

With the other warriors, a total of about 70 men, some of them had only joined them on their march up here, he prepared the defence of the valley's entrance. It seemed that nature was on their side: At the entrance of the canyon, which was quite narrow to begin with, a big avalanche once must have taken place. It barred the river's way, which flew through the valley in a multitude of meanders and arms. In the course of the time the river had successfully found a new way through the mass of rocks and stones, but he had not yet dug a real broad bed. So it created an artificial narrow entrance to the valley, and the debris of the avalanche created many angels in which one could hide the archers. 

The river even had protected the trees not only in the valley but also around it against the fire. The trees would serve as an additional cover. Definitely, the valley was well suited for a final battle, and Legolas and Mardin positioned their men at the most suitable places. 

No one said a single superfluous word. The air seemed charged with tension. Principally they all knew that they were lost. The orcs would find their traces-they had not had the time to try and hide their traces in any way- and they would be in the majority. Even if they wiped out 500 of the enemies- 500 new orcs would from the mountains would appear. Even if they had had an respectable arsenal of weapons on their side, they would succumb eventually, and they didn't have an arsenal. A few arrows, a few swords, some knives – a pitiful collection which would not last long. There was no reason to talk at all. The elves spared their breath for the battle. 

And in spite of all the desperation about their more than hopeless situation Legolas nevertheless felt in every soldier the iron will to fight the hatred enemy in defiance of death. This determination chased their fears and made the waiting tolerable. The waiting for the death bringing creatures which would step forth from the forest before long and would wipe out merciless every life in their reach. Legolas squared his shoulders and continued to stare into the dark. They might been lost, but they would sell their skin as expensive as possible. 

He felt an attachment to his fellow soldiers as strong as he never felt before, and their bravery filled his heart with pride. He turned his head to look at the serious, blood smeared and darkened faces of his comrades. One of the warriors next to him noticed his look and showed his teeth in a grim smile. Legolas approvingly smiled back and then turned his attention back to the dark valley in front of him. They waited. 

** VII. **

The moon stood very high when they heard something for the first time. The sound could have come from some surviving animals of the night, but this fleeting hope soon died when the sound intensified. It was the found of a great troop moving- a great troop which did not even try to be silent. 

Legolas bit his lips. It was cruel. Dawn was not far, so they had almost dared to hope that the orcs would find them too late and would be forced to wait with their attack in order to avoid the hatred sun. They would have to wait for the following night. And with a tremendous amount of luck, until then help from Rivendell might already have reached the valley... 

But it was a matter of seconds till the orcs would arrive. And the three remaining hours of the night would most likely be sufficient for them to destroy the elves. Yes, fate was cruel, but there was nothing they could do. Now they were clearly audible. The clank of metal, bushes and trees which groaned under the people marching by, now and then the snorting of horses. Orcs on horses. Legolas smiled grimly. What an expenditure to slaughter about 200 defenceless elves! 

They waited. They would wait until the orcs were at least partly in between the elves hidden in the forest and the defenders of the valley. Of course this meant sure death for the warriors positioned in the forest for they would have orcs in their front and in their back, but the other soldiers would die only shortly after them. It didn't matter where. They waited as the first attackers became visible as dark shadows between the trees. They waited as the entrance of the valley filled with them, at first with foot soldiers, then with knights. They were many. The moon was, most of the time now, hidden between cumulating clouds, so one could not see far. Not that it changed anything. One could feel their presence, their majority. 

Legolas tensed and lifted the arrow he got from Mardin. He was to give the signal to the attack. His men hidden in the forest most likely would not see it, but they would hear the sounds of battle. Their personal Armageddon had arrived. 

The moon had found a gap between the clouds, for a moment his pale light was mirrored in hundreds of silver and golden armours and helms. The Rivendell elves had come. "Elrond!" cried Mardin behind him in a hoarse voice. "The rivendell elves are here!" and Legolas suddenly was grabbed and caught in a big huge. "The Rivendell elves! Elrond is here!" The cry spread through the wood elves and became a loud cry of joy which fortunately also reached the elves in the forest. And suddenly the rivendell elves saw how their surrounding became alive with shadows which laughing and crying hugged each other, clapped on their shoulders or fell to the floor in fatigue. The Rivendell elves had come. 

**To be continued...**


	4. Agony

**AGONY**

"No sign of life did flicker

In floods of tears she cried

All hope's lost

It can't be undone

They're wasted and gone

Save me your speeches

I know (They blinded us all)

What you want

You want take it

Away from me

Take it and I know for sure

The light she once brought in

Is gone forever more"

(…)

**"Nightfall" by Blind Guardian**

** I. **

It was already getting light for the third time since Elrond and his army had set out hurriedly for the mirkwood, and still the king of all rivendell elves had not returned. Aragorn, who had stood guard on one of the wooden watchtowers towering the entrance to the rivendell valley, rubbed his hands in a vain attempt to warm them and made a few steps to drive away the cold from his stiff and aching limbs. He was ready to drop from fatigue. 

Blinking he watched the morning sun while searching the horizon, but he couldn't see anything. Nothing hostile, but also no returning elves. Aragorn sighed. He was deeply concerned, though he tried to hide it from the others. 

When he had returned to Rivendell two days ago from one of his "strides through the wood", he had immediately been confronted with the horrible news, or rather rumours, which were going around: Thranduil, king of the wood elves, had been hurt or killed, huge parts of the Mirkwood had been devoured by flames and the helpless wood elves, trying to defend their homes, had been attacked by thousands of orcs…

At least the fire was more than just rumours; the dramatically red-coloured sky over the beeches of the Mirkwood had been clearly visible even in Rivendell. This frightening sight had been the reason for Elrond´s decision to lead an army to the Mirkwood. Helping hands surely would be welcome there…

Aragorn was angry with himself, because he had not been there to accompany Elrond, and because he had nothing better to do now than to sit around while his mind painted some horrible visions of what possibly could have happened in the Mirkwood. Sooner or later the inactivity would drive him crazy! 

Like him, the rivendell elves had been nervous and uneasy about the extent of the fire catastrophe which had befallen the wood elves, and when their messengers had arrived, bloodied and tired, long after Elrond's leaving, nervousness and anxiety turned into sorrow and grief. Suddenly also the security of Rivendell itself seemed in danger. So many soldiers had gone with Elrond! What if the orcs had expected his leaving and tried to ambush him? Or even worse: If they dared to attack Rivendell?

Aragorn sighed again, irritated, and buried his face in his hands. Now he was immersed in gloomy thoughts as well as all the others! Night watch was not really useful against smouldering fear. At least it helped to bane the guilty feelings he had for not being in Rivendell when he would have been of use. Or would he soon be of even more use where he was right now? They had reinforced the guards all around Rivendell, and they waited. 

With every minute passing by Aragorn´s heart grew heavier. Elrond should have been back hours ago... What could probably have slowed him down? This time it was the sound of light, subtle steps behind him which aroused Aragorn from his brooding. He didn't have to turn around to know who was standing behind him. Her presence, intense and overwhelming, always left him breathless for a few seconds. "Arwen" he said in a hoarse voice. "Here you are, then." she said. "I knew I would find you here." She came closer, and Aragorn put his arm around her shoulders. He was grateful for both her nearness and her silence. Together they watched the sun and waited for something to happen. 

** II. **

Like the other three guards nearby Arwen seemed to notice something, for she suddenly straightened and searched the horizon. Aragorn involuntary tightened his shoulders and waited for Arwen to say something; for he knew he would not see anything yet. "Elves!" Arwen then exclaimed, and in her voice was all the relief she felt that moment. "But only a small troup." Aragorn too gave a sigh of relief. He squeezed Arwen´s shoulder; and together they climbed down the wooden guard tower to welcome the approaching riders. 

The twelve returning Rivendell-elves seemed to have rode hard. One could see it if one looked at their foaming, trembling horses or their bleak, tired faces. Aragorn´s heart grew heavy as he greeted their leader, which he personally knew. He surely did not look like delivering good news... The elf took his greeting casually and gratefully accepted the bottle of water which Arwen gave him. He leaned against his horse, shoulders slumping, then at least he said: "Lord Elrond and his army are on their way back here..." He spoke loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear him. "He sent me to tell you we'll bring casualties with us." 

A collective groan could be heard from his listeners. "The rumours of the last few days have all been proven true." the messenger continued and took another sip of water since his voice failed him more and more. "There indeed was a devastating fire in the Mirkwood, and the orcs have assaulted the wood elves." This time the crowd gasped in horror. "The surviving wood elves, most of them wounded, will arrive here soon. They'll need our help." 

Though his meagre words about the incidents in the mirkwood had not been suited to reassure anyone; and though they didn't really answer any questions that burned on the tongues of the rivendell-elves, they dispersed immediately. They knew it was not the time to ask idle questions. Soon enough they would be informed of everything...

** III. **

Elrond arrived hours later, when noon was already near. He and his elves rode much more slowly as the messengers before, and the cause of this was clearly visible: They brought the wounded. Many of their horses seemed to carry two riders, a Rivendell elf as well as a slumped figure he supported in the saddle. Other Rivendell elves directed their horses to walk carefully side by side to avoid shaking the stretchers they carried additionally to their riders. Blackened by smoke and soot and overtired as they were, they reminded Aragorn of survivors of a battle which had been lost. Arwen, still at his side, sighed and buried her face at his shoulder. But before Aragorn could react to her, she sighed again, straightened and lifted her head. "Come." she said. "Let's go to meet father. He'll need our help."

Behind the solid doors of Rivendell, already opening for the arriving elves, an even more numerous crowd had gathered than in the morning. Aragorn felt like ducking in a vast sea of bleak, sorrowfull faces when he made his way through the gathering, the sound of lamenting or angry voices ringing in his ears.

But the next instant all the elves went quiet, and in a deadly silence Elrond returned to Rivendell. In front of him the crowd divided, stepped aside, perhaps to create some space for Elrond and his warriors, but more likely they just shrank back from the scene of destruction unfolding before their eyes. 

The Rivendell-elves seemed well enough, though their faces were marked from the horrors they had witnessed. But the filthy, exhausted, blood covered figures they brought with them – could that be the proud, even arrogant wood elves they had met occasionally earlier? 

Aragorn watched, incredulously too, how Elrond's soldiers entered Rivendell, still watched when some of the Rivendell elves seemed to awake from their paralysis and hurried to help the soldiers rescue the wounded. He himself was not capable to move. "They'll bring the wood elves with them, so we were told." he thought, astonished that the door guardians already had started to close the main gate behind the arrivals. "Did they just bring the wounded and left the rest of the Mirkwood elves behind?" His mind still refused to accept the whole terrible truth, but when the doors of Rivendell fell close with a thud, he instinctively knew that no more wood elves would follow, and no more had been left behind. Perhaps he was one of the first to understand the extent of the catastrophe which had befallen the wood elves – and with them the whole kingdom of the elves. Cold horror seized him, and he suddenly felt sick. Almost roughly he pushed himself through the crowd of Rivendell-elves which blocked his way to Elrond and his men, and everyone who managed to get a look at his face involuntary shrank back. Aragorn did not notice. 

With rising desperation he run along the dismounting Rivendell-elves, searching all the while for known faces among the wood elves. Some of them were good friends of him. "Altaja, Voltos, Memic, Fellon..." he thought. "Mirmos, Eleja, Regerin...where are you?" He looked around, wildly, but he could not discover anyone he knew. "Just what do you expect..." the voice of reason said in his mind. "...you see that only precious little wood elves have been spared! Why should your friends of all people be among the survivors?" 

Aragorn did not want to be reasonable. He searched on; and recklessly pushed aside anyone getting in his way. Arwen had soon given up following him.

At least Aragorn noticed the almost scared looks he got of the elves he pushed aside, and within a second he had sobered up. He stopped his pacing and took a deep breath. Now it was not the moment to think of oneself, but to save what was still to be saved. Soon enough he would know if all of his friends had been victims of the orcs... He almost felt ashamed for his panic, but it was not the time to be ashamed, too. Again he inhaled deeply, then he looked around, much calmer now, in order to find Elrond. The elven king surely could need his assistance right now.

** IV. **

Arwen already stood beside her father when Aragorn finally had spotted Lord Elrond and fought his way to him. Elrond seemed older than Aragorn

had ever seen him, as old as it was probably possible for an elf. His eyes clearly mirrored the horror he had witnessed the last few days, and for a moment even the great elven king Elrond seemed unsure of what to do, what to command. Aragorn was just about to address him when he noticed an overtired wood elf leaning herself against a horse just beside Elrond. He seemed in a pretty bad shape… 

Yes, now the elf´s knees buckled, and only Aragorn´s strong, supporting grip prevented his collapse. But before Aragorn could say something, the elf had liberated himself and stood on his own feet again. He looked up to Aragorn, though, and this was the moment at which Aragorn finally recognised him.

"Legolas!" he said, relieved that he had found at least one of his friends alive, but it was Elrond who reacted to his words, not Legolas. The elvenking put a hand on his shoulder and led him a few steps aside. "Is this Legolas, king Thranduil´s fifth child?" he sharply asked, and he bit his lip as Aragorn nodded. "Except Legolas, have you discovered someone else from the king´s family?" "No." Aragorn said, unsure of what exactly Elrond wanted to hear. "But I fear that…" "That´s what I fear too." Elrond said grimly and loosened his grip. Then he turned his attention to Legolas, who still leaned against the horse for support, eyes closed now. 

"Legolas, son of Thranduil." he said. "I see that you´ve been wounded. But it is of outermost importance for me to hear what has happened the last few days as soon as possible. So if your wounds do not bother you too much… I just need to know what went on! And since you seem to be the only survivor of the king´s family and therefore the new leader of the wood elves..." 

"No! No!" Legolas interrupted, and something next to panic was in his voice. "I'm not the only survivor from the king's family! Elwyne's alive! It's only...It's only that he probably has lost the use of his leg... But he's alive! Father named him his heir before he died..." Aragorn bit his lip, and even Elrond seemed not capable to look Legolas straight in the eyes for a few seconds. "I´m grateful that Elwyne is alive." he finally said, gently "But at the moment it is you I ask for help" 

Legolas did not show any reaction to Elronds words. "Legolas!" Aragorn exclaimed, anxious, and seized Legolas by his shoulders. This at least seemed to bring the elf out of his reverie, and Legolas gave a small nod to Aragorn before he wiped a bloodied strand of hair out of his face and directed himself at Elrond: "Surely, Lord Elrond." he said in a hoarse voice. "That's the smallest thing I can do to thank you for your help." Elrond gratefully nodded and led Legolas and Mardin, who had not moved much more than an inch away from his prince all the time, to his private rooms.

** V. **

There were fires burning in Rivendell the whole night. They illuminated tents, provisory accommodations and terraces – all the places where wood elves had been accommodated and were now attended by every elf in Rivendell which knew something about healing or at least about consoling. The red glow of the fires was the single trace of light which could be detected in the eyes of the saved, and the warmth they gave the only warmth they felt. They died out of sadness, although they were save now behind the walls of Rivendell, although they had been strengthened with lemba and their wounds had been attended –also Elrond, seemingly inexhaustible, had done his share of the work – much, far too much of them closed their eyes to never open them again. The fire and the orcs still found their victims, even here. 

Legolas crouched himself on Elrond's terrace, face petrified, with Elwyne's head resting in his lap. He still was disturbed and confused from being in Elrond's private rooms, where he had given the king of the Rivendell-elves, Aragorn and a few others a detailed account of the nightmarish events of the last few days. In the background he had noticed an additional auditor: A scaring, bearded figure, clad in white, from which he had heard many tales, but only seen him once, as a child: Saruman, the white wizard. 

Elrond and the others had not been satisfied with what Legolas had told them. Their incredulous faces, their many questions had been tell-tale. 

They probably had hoped that he would have any explanations for the killing of Thranduil and the attack on all the wood elves. No one, not even the orcs, did a military operation as big as this one without a good reason. Against his will Legolas felt his throat tighten. Damned, he also had no clue what really had happened! For the wood elves, too, the orcs had come as a complete surprise, or else they would have been fought back. Did Elrond even think that he, Legolas, concealed something from the council? The king of the Rivendell-elves had been very distant, very short, almost as scaring as the human wizard... 

Only as he had asked if he could go and look for his brother Elrond harsh features had visibly softened, and so he now sat here, too exhausted to feel and think much, and watched as two elderly Rivendell-elves, both of them experienced in war wounds and usually imperturbable – tried to help his elder brother. Without moving he watched their efforts and he knew that they fought for Elwyne's leg, and for his life, as well. The deadly sadness was strong in him, dulled his perceptions and made him apathetically and indifferent. Had it not been for the hate, burning in his heart since the first orc had turned up, he might wouldn't have survived the loss of his family and his home. 

At least the two elves had finished with Elwyne's leg. One of them patted Elwyne's cheek and sighed worriedly when the elf did not get ready to awake from his unconsciousness. The other laid an comforting hand on Legolas' shoulder. "He will live." he gently announced. "But his leg will never by of proper use anymore." Getting no reaction from his opposite he sighed and looked sharply at Legolas, but then he left; he and his friends had much more patients in need. To heal broken hearts was not in his power...

** VI. **

(sentences in italic: Sarumans thoughts, not spoken aloud)

Elrond's private rooms were lit the whole night, too. "I wonder what has really happened in the mirkwood..." the elven king murmured while pacing the room, to no one in particular, and he hoped that his only listener, Saruman, could not hear the desperation and helplessness in his voice, for desperation and helplessness were both feelings that were not appropriate for a leader of the elves in this disaster. 

_"I long to know myself" _Saruman thought, but said nothing. His dark face remained unreadable. _What has taken this useless creature of a goldsmith with Thranduil's ring? His orders were simple enough: To betray the elves to the orcs, wait till they have killed their hatred enemy, take Thranduil's ring and bring it to me. That should be easy to accomplish even for a treacherous fool like this crawling human! I waited long enough to find anyone able to gain Thranduil's trust! Damned wood elf! He even dared to mistrust me! He never mentioned the ring with a single in my presence._

There was a hint of a smile on his lips for a moment, instantly gone again. _That's what you got for your mistrust, Thranduil. The ring, and all his rarely known, but immense power, will soon be mine!"_

"How did the fire arise?" _A little bit of magic from my side. _"Where did all the orcs come from? How did they hide from the wood elves until it was to late? And why, why did they not return to kill the surviving wood elves when they had the opportunity? In fact we did not see a single orc on our ride through the Mirkwood... They seem to have retreated right after the first attack..."

_They retreated because I told them to do so, fool._ _The wood elves are not important to me as long as I get their ring. I just wanted to weaken them. They're still warriors, after all. _

His eyes followed Elrond, who had started pacing again. "What goes on in their evil minds neither men nor elves can say." he then said, quietly. "and robbing, killing and plundering seems to be their only aim in life." "That's what's bothering me." Elrond sharply interrupted. "The orcs should have returned to finish the killing. Everything else is out of the orc's nature. Something...or someone... might have hold them back." Saruman narrowed his eyes. 

"What you mean, Lord Elrond, is that someone has put up the orcs to this attack!" _You're closer to the truth than you suspect. Almost to close..._

Elrond looked at him for a moment, deep in thoughts, then his shoulders slumped. "I do not know." he then said. "I do not know. Why should someone do such a thing?" _You'll know the moment I'll take YOUR ring from your finger... _"I'm sure about one thing, though: The orcs should have returned." _Don't worry, Elrond, king of all rivendell elves: The orcs will return. Sooner than you think.._

** VII. **

The day the funeral obsequies took place was of a tormenting beauty. The morning sun flooded Rivendell´s trees, meadows and waters with golden light and brought a warmth which seemed too early for this time of the year. The life-bringing reign of spring was back– something that seemed inappropriate to Legolas in a strange way, as if he had somehow irrationally expected that even nature should share his -their- loss. Rivendell clearly was more breathtaking, more shining than he had ever seen it, but Legolas suddenly realised that he was not receptive of beauty anymore. He felt helpless, alone, lost and abandoned, and deep in his heart he already understood that he´d been driven out from paradise, with no hope of return. 

He remembered telling Boromir a few days ago –it seemed eternities- that elves could not feel like humans did. He knew now that he had been wrong. He surely felt like a mortal now. Fierce storms of grief, anger and hate raged through him, and what was worst of all – it felt right. He was not here in the valleys of Rivendell to find calm, oblivion or a save haven - he was here to seek revenge. 

Revenge for the fallen from his people, which now lay lined up in long rows before them. They had been clothed in long, white, opal shimmering clothes; the blood, filth and ash washed from their faces, flowers woven into their hair. There were huge funeral pyres beside them, build by the Rivendell elves, to hand over the bodies of the fallen to the fire. Their ashes would then be scattered on a clearing, lined by ancient, wise trees. It was a place of marvellous beauty, chosen by Arwen. Legolas gratefully noticed the sensible gesture behind her suggestion, although it seemed very human to him. All the same, the thought of his father, his brothers and sisters, his friends and his people resting under their beloved trees was strangely comforting. 

Aromatic vapours were now rising from the pyres – some Rivendell elves had put herbs on the burning stacks of wood - and now silent, incredibly sad singings could be heard from them. The wood elves did not sing. With petrified faces they watched the funeral ceremony going on. Soon the moment would be here when the bodies of the fallen would be handed to the fire, first of all king Thranduil, which lay, in the white clothes of Rivendell, with his weapons and his favourite amulet made of green shimmering diamonds, right in front of his youngest son. 

He looked peaceful now, but still Legolas had to swallow a lump in his throat and he blinked away some burning tears. Lord Elrond himself got ready to take Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, onto his arms, but Legolas was faster, and Elrond stepped back without a sign of annoyance. Legolas picked up his father and carried him to the burning pyre only to put him down again to carefully watch his all-to-familiar features one last time. 

Then he bent down, seemingly lost in thoughts, and oblivious of all the eyes directed on him, he took something of his father's property. He did not take his father's splendid bow, or his incredibly precious amulet - Legolas chose his fathers sword as a keepsake. The sword was heavy in his hands, and slowly he put it into his belt and again lifted his father's body to place it on the pyre. And in this moment he silently vowed that many, many orcs would taste this sword in memory of his father. 

Then he stepped back and watched as the many stacks of wood first awakened to life and then burned up slowly, like the star of the wood elves in the Mirkwood had done. His eyes and his heart were like cold stones during the ceremony. His gesture had not been lost on Elrond though, and the king of the Rivendell elves had a worried look on his face. His uneasiness, concerning Legolas, grew. He would have to keep an eye on the Mirkwood's youngest prince...

His scowl deepened even more when he noticed the approving looks the wood elves shared. It seemed that there already existed an agreement among them about a subject which had not been discussed with the Rivendell-elves: the revenge against the orcs. 

Or was he wrong, and overvalued a harmless, even touching gesture? What meant Thranduil's sword to his son? Was it taken as a sign of memory of lost things or a sign of hate?

Elrond decided to ask Legolas Greenleaf, now –at least temporary- king of Mirkwood about this, as soon as decency would allow it. If there was something that he – and all the rest of the elves – could not use right now, it would be an unplanned revenge campaign. He sighed and shortly touched his temples. "Now you already start seeing ghosts everywhere." he scolded himself and tried to pay more attention to the ongoing ceremonies. But the uneasiness which had overcome him suddenly was not easily shaken off – for a good reason, as he soon would notice.

** VIII. **

"So the Rivendell-elves will not do anything to revenge the wood elves, will they?" Legolas asked shortly, not even trying to conceal his anger. Gandalf gave him a scolding look, and Elrond draw in a sharp breath, but he didn´t deny Legolas´ words. "That´s what you want to tell us, Lord Elrond!" Legolas continued, more than a touch of arrogance in his voice, and he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "What Lord Elrond means, young Legolas Greenleaf…"Saruman quietly, unimpressed, answered. "…is that it would not be wise to ride against the orcs right now, for we do not know anything about their plans, their hiding places, their weapons or even their numbers. To attack them right now, completely unprepared, would mean to risk the lives of many elves to no use. But if we first plan our revenge, carefully, coldblooded, we could…" 

"Planning! Waiting!" The fact that Legolas dared to interrupt the commonly respected and feared wizard clearly proved the extent of his fury. The prince of Mirkwood had lost every hint of elvish reserve. He gave Saruman an enraged look. "My father has been killed! The same goes for most of my people! Our homes have been devastated… The blood of our fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters screams for revenge! Perhaps it´s customary among Rivendell-elves to sit and wait when their families and friends are killed. It´s certainly not customary among wood elves!" 

Elrond, Saruman, Aragorn and the other participants of the council sat in silence, taken aback. The debate did take a course they had not anticipated... Worried glances were exchanged. The talks about the future of the wood elves and the line of action of all elves did take a course they had not anticipated. 

Of course they all knew that measures had to be taken to punish the orcs for their outrage. But if the elimination of almost all of Thranduil's people had proved something, then it was the growing vulnerability of the elves. Only a few centuries ago an attack like this had been unthinkable and would have ended in a devastating defeat for the attackers; if someone would have been stupid enough to plan such a suicidal venture. But now the power of the elves, as well as their number, was shrinking while their enemies seemed getting more and more numerous. Seen in this light, the fall of the wood elves was just a last, drastically proof of a development that had started long ago. Elrond knew that neither he or any other elf could detain this development. But he had sworn to himself that every elvish life he could beware would be a valuable contribution to the future of the elvish people, and this was true for Rivendell as well as for Mirkwood elves.

He gritted his teeth. No elf in middle-earth could made him change his mind, and he would not allow that anyone would uselessly waste the life of elves in a crusade against the orcs. For heaven's sake, if he only could persuade his opposite that just the moment of, but not the revenge itself was the point of discussion...

Mardin however, stepped forth and laid a hand on Legolas` shoulder. Perhaps it was a comforting gesture; or a silent ply to calm down, but most likely he just expressed his agreement with the prince and was ready to support his leader in every way possible. Also the tree other wood elves accompanying Legolas had dark faces and moved closer to their prince as if to award more weight to his words.

"Why this hate?" Elrond finally asked. "Do you think, prince Legolas, that hate and revenge can bring back one single fallen elf?" A shudder went through Legolas´ body. "No, Lord Elrond." he said, and there was an air of almost tangible sadness about him, if only for a moment. "They will not bring any elf back." He looked at the floor, visibly fighting to regain his composure. "But they die out of sadness." he then said, very quiet, very desperate. "They die out of sadness." He looked at the floor again.

Elrond felt every hint of anger evaporate when he heard this words, deeply touched, and Saruman seemed to feel the same for he stared at Legolas as if mesmerized, and Aragorn gently touched Legolas arm. But the elf stiffened under the contact, and when he lifted his head the hate was back in his eyes. A hate which, Elrond suddenly understood, effectively would separate Legolas Greenleaf from any reasonable argument. 

Abruptly Legolas got up. "The only way to fight the sadness in them is to give them an aim." He searched Elrond's face. "Tell me, Lord Elrond: What aim can a wood elf probably have? To rebuild our destroyed homes in the equally destroyed Mirkwood? We´re much to few for this... To stay here and to get slowly consumed by the longing for our dark woods?" Quieter he continued. "I do not wish more elves to lose their lives,too. I agree with you in this point, Lord Elrond. But if waiting means sure death to a wood elf as well as revenge against the orcs does – we surely will choose the second option. With or without the Rivendell-elves." 

Elrond had also raised, he seemed to want to say something, but then chose to remain silent. With a short nod Legolas bid farewell to the present elves and turned to leave. He only stopped to say: "We too thought the Mirkwood to be safe." Then he withdraw, accompanied by the other wood elves. Elrond stood there for a few seconds as if petrified, then he slapped the table with his fist in a vehemence which made everyone jump. Saruman smiled.

**To be continued...**


	5. 5 Estrangement

**Estrangement**

"The words of a banished king

"I swear revenge"

Filled with anger, aflamed our hearts

Full of hate

Full of pride

How we screamed for revenge

Nightfall

Quietly it crept in and changed us all

Nightfall

Quietly it crept in and changed us all

Nightfall

Immortal land lies down in agony"

**"Nightfall" from Blind Guardian**

** I. **

Aragorn still felt dazed from the unexpected turn the discussion of the rivendell- with the wood-elves had taken. He didn't know what had surprised him more: the irreconcilable hate Legolas – his friend Legolas – had radiated, or Elronds fit of anger which had followed. When the remaining participants of the council, Saruman and some rivendell elves, finally got up and left the room, he decided to follow them, but a sign from Elrond held him back. 

Saruman too, seemed to have noticed Elrond's gesture, for he hesitated, already under the door, but then he eventually left. Aragorn let himself fall back on his chair and waited for what Elrond had to tell him. Vainly, so it seemed, for the elven king chose to remain silent. Aragorn, tense with anticipation and impatience, gave him a questioning look, and everything he had wanted to say died on his lips.

Elrond sat there, and his face was buried in his hands, and his shoulders slumped. Pity suddenly constricted Aragorns throat, and he barely dared to breathe to not disturb his opposite. Elrond radiated this kind of distance, and loneliness, against which words were completely useless, even shallow, and suddenly Aragorn understood. Elrond had been king of the rivendell elves as long as he could remember (which was, actually, not that long, as an elf would reckon) and of course much longer. He knew he could not imagine what Elrond had seen during his life, many victories, conquests, bigger and smaller joys, but also many defeats, losses and pains. Elrond had reigned, all those years, calm, bright, level-headed, even kind, but for the first time Aragorn recognised with growing unease that the superior, wise elven king was just one side of an elf which often enough doubted his decisions, and which was more vulnerable than generally known. It was the burden of power which pressed down Elronds shoulders, and it was only due to his strength that usually no one noticed this burden. On Elrond weighted the responsibility for the life of many elves, and he knew it all to well. Behind every decision he made the ruin of the ones he cared for could be lurking...

Aragorn bit his lip, glad that it was not him from which decisions were expected, although he instinctively knew he once would be in the same position as Elrond, later. He sincerely hoped that the reason why Elrond showed his momentary weakness was because he searched for the right decision; and not because he already foresaw the downfall of his people. At last the silence had lasted too long for Aragorn's taste, and so he calmly asked: "Is there something I can do?" Elrond raised his head. There were dark shadows under his eyes, but his face had his usual keen expression. "How good do you know this Legolas? You called him by his name when you discovered him first..." The elven king had regained composure for he sat upright, and his face was back to his usual unreadable expression. He finally seemed to have made his decisions.

Aragorn hesitated. He had thought to know Legolas, even counted him as a friend, though not a really close one. Thranduil's youngest son had been more quiet than most elves, well, more quiet at least as his brothers, more reserved, more reticent... An image of the elven prince, asking revenge for the orc's victims from Elrond, flickered through his mind. No, this was not the Legolas he once knew. He bit his lip again while Elrond patiently waited for an answer. "Yes." He finally said. "He'd been among the elves which accompanied me on a "stride" through the woods for a few times. We got along well enough." He hesitated again, all too aware that he had not answered Elrond's question. With a frustrated sigh he admitted to himself he wasn't able to, and instead started to put his confusion into words. "Legolas was a fine elf." he finally said. "Friendly, reliable, and thoughtful. Not as quick tempered as his father. But he also seemed to dissociate himself from time to time, not allowing anyone the get really close. Some called his attitude arrogant, but it wasn't. He didn't need company all the time, that was it." Hell, didn't he give a general picture of the elves? He tried it otherwise. "But...he's not the elf I once have known, Elrond. He did survive the orc's attack, but I fear they got him all the same...somehow...He has changed so much!". God, he must sound ridiculous! But still, Elrond seemed grateful to him trying to put his thoughts into words. He smiled a strained smile. "Who hasn't." he agreed, then he took hold of Aragorns left arm. "Did he prove any leader's qualities?" he asked, a question which Aragorn would have preferred left unspoken. "I don't know." he answered, quite truthfully. "Yes, I think. The wood elves always said that he's getting after his father. But ... but this matter was of no importance in the mirkwood since Legolas had that much elder brothers! It is – was – highly improbable for him to take his father's crown, once. He did not show any hint of interest in power, neither, but seemed to be content being a hunter, roaming the woods..." 

"I understand." Elrond said, but nothing more. "You plan to replace him?" Aragorn asked, suddenly alarmed. "Only if he forces me to." Elrond answered in a soft voice. "And he will, if he does not listen to reason and further insists on a swift revenge against the orcs before we have gathered our forces." "The wood elves won't be happy about this." Aragorn warned. "For Legolas is the last survivor of their king's family, and since Thranduil has been a king according to their hearts, they're more loyal than is actually reasonable. And being reigned by a rivendell elf... I doubt you find their approval!" "I know." Elrond said again. "But I won't allow the wood elves to loose their life uselessly, no matter how intent they are on killing themselves. It will be Greenleaf who'll choose, not me: Either he agrees to my wishes, to get our revenge to a later date; or he still allows hate to be his adviser and thus proves to be unworthy of leadership. As a true king he has to choose "surviving" before "pride"." Elrond almost smiled. A difficult choice indeed for a wood elf with his exact views of what was honourable and decent! "Dear god." Aragorn sighed. Deep in his heart he knew Elrond was right with what he had said about Legolas, but his instincts, well-tried a thousand times in his life as a ranger, clearly warned him about this. Elrond seemed to feel the same, for he added: "Go and try to talk some sense into him. Perhaps if his pain has wore off a little, he'll not be insisting in instant actions to be taken. I'll not even think about to replace him then. I understand his grief, probably better than he suspects me to do. My heart screams for revenge, too. But we cannot let our hearts decide, not here, not now. We have to use our heads, or we'll be lost." Again he smiled at Aragorn, genuinely this time. "You're young like him." he then continued, "Relatively spoken. Perhaps you're better suited than me to find the right words with him. Talk him out of his plans. The lives of many elves are at stake." "Damned." Aragorn thought. "Does Elrond know what he's asking for? If I fail, I'll probably be responsible for an fast escalating situation... But he nodded, ashamed of his selfish thoughts. It was time he did his share in this mess; and tried to save what was still saveable. He nodded again, more firmly this time. "I'll do my best." "I know." Elrond said for the third time; and started pacing his room again. 

** II. **

Aragorn didn't have to go far to find Legolas Greenleaf. The young elf, accompanied by a sturdy, rather fierce looking elder elf wham's name Aragorn didn't remember, stood on Elrond's terrace and watched the falling dusk. Whether he was still angry or not, Aragorn couldn't say, for Legolas face was shadowed, and he didn't move, though he must have heard Aragorns approaching steps. 

Aragorn now could have addressed Legolas instantly, but an odd insecurity to express his thoughts to the wood elf had overtaken him, the same he had felt earlier in the conversation with Elrond, and so he stood where he was. His head swirled with confused ideas how he best could proceed to explain Elronds –and his- intentions properly. So much could depend on this talk: The lives of many wood elves would be spared, and Legolas Greenleaf would never know that Elrond had wanted to deny him his leading role. He felt the cool night air refreshing him, and dimming the splitting headache that he had tried to ignore thus far. Again he took a quick look at Legolas and his companion. He narrowed his eyes. Did Legolas shoulders really twitch, or was he mistaken? And did not the wood elf warrior put a consoling hand on the prince's shoulder?

Aragorns anxiety grew. To catch Legolas in his current weakness would not help Elrond's wishes much... The scene developing in front of his eyes reminded him very much of the one between him and Elrond earlier. He almost smiled at this thought. Legolas Greenleaf and Elrond seemed to have more things in common than either of them would appreciate. The restrained, calm, friendly nature they usually showed. The iron will they possessed, only to be detected if you tried to do anything against their wanting. And both of them were responsible for the future of their people, even though that of Legolas didn't count many souls anymore. 

"What's different between them is only Elrond's experience." he reflected. "Only a few centuries ago I'm sure Elrond would have left, too – in disorder and completely unplanned – to kill as many orcs as possible". 

Some ideas slowly took concrete forms in his head, ideas how he could persuade Legolas to accord to Elrond's wishes. If he succeeded to soothe the grief, the hate and the desperation in Legolas heart, at least a little bit, if he explained him that also the rivendell elves shared the wood elves' pain, and – what was most important – if he could tell him that he was not alone with his responsibility, then his delicate mission might be successful. Perhaps he even managed to state clearly that it was only experience, not indifference, which caused Elrond's rejecting attitude. 

It was a pity that he never got a chance to use his arguments on Legolas... 

The elven prince and his companion had turned to face him and sized him up with almost hostile looks. Aragorn decided to ignore their stares and stepped nearer. Now he could see that indeed Legolas' eyes were reddish, and they held a feverish glint. Nonetheless, his jaws were set, and his expression was firm. "Just like Elrond." Aragorn thought. "The moment he has made his decision, no one will be able to talk him into changing his mind." "Aragorn!" Legolas exclaimed and took a grip on his arm. It was painful, but he beard it stoically. "Did Elrond send you?" "Yes." Aragorn admitted. Of course Legolas had read his intention easily. "Good." the elf continued, in a superior tone which started to irritate him. "Then go and tell him I'll give him four days to think this over. Then we'll leave Rivendell to eradicate the orc-breed pestering our wood. With or without him." With this words he left. Aragorn stood, speechless from anger, and frustration from being treated like a schoolboy, and he didn't know if he should be angry at Legolas and his all-to-arrogant attitude; or if he should take pity on him as an elf who obviously was out of his head from desperation.

** III. **

The signs were signalling storm when Gandalf and his companions reached Rivendell the next morning. He could see it by counting the numerous guards and archers which watched over the larger surroundings of Rivendell, or by considering the way how he, a normally highly welcome guest, was greeted. Elrond and a few other elves, which had always come to welcome him earlier, were conspicuous by their absence, instead he got attention from another, less desiderable direction; from the guards. Even before they had reached the main gates, they were received by grimly looking archers, and her leader addressed him in a tone which was not entirely friendly. "Who are these strange guests you bring with you, Gandalf the Grey?" he asked, obviously intent in doing his duty. Gandalf remained unperturbed. "Let us pass." he said. "For how long is it a custom now with elves to welcome their guests in such unfriendly ways? My companions are hobbits, from the shire, if you have already heard from this remote land, and no enemies of the elves." One of the soldiers opened his mouth, to give some harsh retort, doubtless, but his commander declined and ordered the main doors to be opened. 

Gandalf indeed would have been surprised about the cool reception, if he hadn't been all too aware about the catastrophe which had befallen the mirkwood elves. Gandalf always had supported informers in all likely and unlikely places on middle-earth. The mirkwood had been one of them, too. 

His heart ached for Thranduil's people, and his dark mood seemed to have rubbed of on his companions, for no one, not even Merry or Pippin, said a single word when they walked into Rivendell. 

Gandalf looked around. Never had he seen a Rivendell more deserted, more lifeless. An oppressing silence hung over the elven valley like heavy storm clouds over obstinate mountain tops. While the guards discussed about where to put the new arrivals – no easy matter, since every free room was occupied by wounded wood elves, Gandalf reflected that he was glad about this frosty greeting. There was too much to be thought about, and not only the terrible fate of the wood elves. There were other, much more hideous matters at hand, matters connected with the four hobbits he had brought with him. And with a ring that one of them had possessed, and stored, completely ignorant of it's nature... 

But he wasn't sure about this yet. He still had to do some investigations in Rivendell as well as elsewhere. Time was running out. How the time was running out, if his suspicions proved to be true... Only when Frodo tugged at his sleeve he awakened from his gloomy thoughts, and followed the elf which had patiently waited beside them to show them their rooms.

EEE

The storm came over Rivendell four days later. He had sent his forerunners, smaller quarrels between rivendell- and wood elves, the retreat of the recovered wood elves in a small forest somewhat remote from the most dense settlement of Rivendell, their following activities which suspiciously looked like the making of arrows and bows as well as some rivendell-elves talking openly from an offending lack of gratitude from their guests; which seemed to have forgotten that they had been saved by their hosts earlier. The relationship between the sylvan and Elrond's elves had cooled off visibly. "Found back to their old arrogance, the wood elves" some rivendell elves said, thus expressing their indignation in plain words. Other showed more comprehension, for the shock about the fall of the elves which now had found shelter with them, had been intense. One couldn't expect rational behaviour from someone halfway mad out of grief, could one?

** IV. **

      It was quiet in Rivendell, it's streets vacant and deserted, but it was an strangely tense quiet, like the one which can be noticed just before a storm begins, when the air is almost sparkling with electricity. Only the most insensitive, ignorant elves would have been untouched by this gloomy atmosphere, and Elrond was neither insensitive nor ignorant. So he wasn't really surprised when it finally came to an open confrontation between him and the wood elves' leader, Legolas. What was more surprising was how fast this wood elf managed to infuriate him, or even make him loose his temper. He was relieved that no one but him and Legolas were present in his private rooms to witness their dispute, for he would probably have been ashamed for showing his anger without even trying to mask it. With Legolas, he was not. He stood in front of Thranduil's son, a few inches taller, and threw him a glance which would have scared the wits out of any receiving rivendell elf, but Legolas, as a damned wood elf, seemed annoyingly unimpressed. He gave back an equal angry glare. Elrond took a deep breath to calm himself, and he actually did, if only for a fleeting moment. "I do not like to repeat myself, Legolas Greenleaf." he said, frostily. "But in this case it seems advisable to make an exception. So, if you don't mind listening to me: There will be NO act of revenge against the orcs. Not as long as I am here to avoid it. It's insane to even consider such a thing right now." Legolas bared his teeth in a feline grin. He too made a visible effort to pull himself together. "You mean, there will be no rivendell elf riding against the orcs." he corrected, silkily, but the threat in his voice was only barely concealed. "No power in this world, least of all the one a rivendell elf yields, will be able to keep us from seeking our revenge." There was deadly determination in his voice. It made Elrond shudder. Very well, if Greenleaf was not willing listening to reason, he had to take more desperate measures.

"You're not numerous anymore, and many of you carry wounds that are barely healed. It would be irresponsible to fight orcs- and who knows what else is hiding out there in the mirkwood – with elves in that shape! Are the lives of your archers not worth caring for?" Legolas winced at this, and instantly lost his temper again. "As I already mentioned." he said in this flat, arrogant tone which made Elrond's blood boiling. "Here in rivendell, my archers will die out of sadness. There, in the mirkwood, in a battle against the orcs. There at least their death would have some sense; and it would not be just a quiet, desperate, useless fading." Then, just like a afterthought, he added: "We do not care if we live or die." Worst of all was that Elrond had no doubt that this was in earnest. So it would come to the most desperate measure, and he would have to dispute Legolas the role as a leader of the wood elves. He was determined to do so, but still, when he actually had to pronounce his intentions, words seemed to have deserted him. He cleared his throat. "And where do you plan to take your horses from? Your weapons? Your war equipment is – to put it mildly – inadequate." He kept his tone carefully neutral. Legolas eyed him suspiciously. "You won't give us any horses or weapons." He sounded incredulous. "Of course not." Elrond shortly retorted. "You surely do not expect me to support you in your suicidal mission!" He almost smirked. It was obvious that mirkwood's king in fact had just expected that, for he seemed taken aback, but only for a second, then his face again showed this expression of nonchalant arrogance.

"It'll be as you wish. Then we'll leave with what we possess. Is it allowed to make wooden arrows, and bows, from rivendell-trees? Or will you deny us them, too?" Now his voice was dripping with sarcasm. Elrond gave him another angry glare. This was not the time, nor the place, for jokes! A few seconds passed by in a heavy silence. Then Legolas made a polite bow in Elrond's direction, the mockery still unmistakable. Elrond knew he used it to mask his anger, and disappointment, but it made him hopping mad all the same. Legolas turned to leave. "Legolas Greenleaf!" Elrond almost flinched himself when his wrath was finally released. The wood elf stiffened, but did not turn. "I'll replace you as the leader of your people You'll be relieved from your duties." This certainly was enough to get a reaction from Legolas. He turned, and another contemptuous look met his glare.

"Go and tell the wood elves then" he said. "I don't mind. But I doubt there'll be a single wood elf listening to you." Then he disappeared. This time Elrond wasn't satisfied with just hitting the table. This time a glass jug went to pieces. Elrond didn't feel better afterwards.

** V. **

      Gandalf the Grey had been standing already quite a while in front of the door to Elrond's library, waiting patiently. Initially he had come here to lend himself some documents from the elven king's private property, but when he had heard the loud voices behind exactly that door he decided to let his plans –at least temporary- drop. No one would be grateful if he interrupted this apparently heated discussion. For a few days and nights Gandalf had done nothing but reading, and when he finally sat himself, he noticed to his dismay that sleep instantly threatened to overwhelm him. From the talk – or, more precisely, from the violent row, judging from the amount of noise that could be heard – he didn't catch more than two, three words. Perhaps the quarrel was a private matter of Elrond, perhaps not, and in the latter case Elrond surely would inform him about it later. Suddenly Gandalf straightened himself bolt upright, and his tiredness had vanished, for the shattering of glass had awakened him. With surprisingly fast movements, denying his age, he had reached the door to Elrond's room. Had he underestimated Elrond's trouble? Was there a fight taking place? 

He got his answer in the form of a young elf hastily leaving the elven king's library and almost bumping into him. Gandalf thought he vaguely remembered his opposite's face, in a younger form though, but he couldn't be sure, for the elf's fair features were distorted in anger. Only the legendary grace of the his race saved the wizard from a violent colliding. The elf gave him an angry look before he deliberatly moved around him, leaving more space than was entirely necessary; and vanished before Gandalf even had the chance to think of something to say.

"May I introduce you, Gandalf..." Elrond's voice said from behind him. The elfish lord was standing under the libraries' door. "Legolas Greenleaf, Thranduil's youngest son, king of mirkwood... at least up to now." His voice was filled with sarcasm. Gandalf arched an inquiring eyebrow. Elrond instantly became serious again. "You've come just in time, as usual." he said with a weary sigh. "Perhaps you will succeed to bring this stubborn troublemaker to his senses – and thus sparing us even more disaster." And he led Gandalf into his rooms.

** VI. **

On the morning of the fifth day since the orc's attack, Gandalf made his way to the small forest in which the wood elves now dwelt, at least the recovered ones, as he had promised Elrond to do. He knew that the elven king held much hope in him, or rather in his reputation; as Gandalf the wise, and Gandalf the elf-friend. Futile hopes, most likely. Of course Elrond was right in not wanting to waste forces which already were limited, especially if his misgivings about the little ring the hobbit, Frodo, possessed, were to become confirmed...

But then not only the life of the wood elves, but the existence of the whole elfish people, and all free people in middle-earth, would be threatened. Such things as the killing of the wood elves most likely would be just one smaller inconvenience among the disasters which lay in store for their lands... Gandalf slowed down his pace and shook his head, unwillingly, trying to banish his gloomy thoughts. "Time will bring an answer." he scolded himself. "There are more important tasks at hand than to worry about an uncertain future." And he surveyed the little forest which lay before him in the morning sun, peacefully and flourishing . 

He couldn't discern any elf, which did not bother him, for he knew for sure that already quite a few of them were watching him. Indeed, he only got three steps further when three wood elves stepped out from the edge of the forest, where they had been hidden, their faces cool and unfriendly. Legolas Greenleaf was among them. "Gandalf Stormcrow." he said, a hint of respect in his voice. "What do you want from us?" "I wish to speak to you, Legolas, Thranduils son." Gandalf answered. "Alone." Legolas companions exchanged glances. Gandalf chose to overlook them. "Did Elrond send you?" A touch of hostility was now in Legolas question. "And if were so?" Gandalf calmly asked back. "Will you refuse listening to me, then?" On a sign from Legolas the wood elves behind their prince turned to leave, but Gandalf knew they would be watching him, and their king, intently, even though he could not see them anymore. Legolas had stepped a few steps away from the forest, presumably to demonstrate his willingness to give Gandalf some privacy. The old wizard watched him silently, so it was the elf who started talking again. "What now, wizard Gandalf? Have you come to tell me – like Elrond – that our screams for revenge are folly? That we should not revenge the fall of our people? The destruction of our homes? Or did he sent you to tell me that he has replaced me as the king of the wood elves? Then he is a king without a people." 

"You do him wrong." Gandalf said. "He is beside himself with sorrow about the future. Your future. The elfish future. He has already seen the dying of too many elves; and he does not want to witness yours as well. He's not indifferent against your fate, just... just too powerless to help you. As powerless as YOU are against the orcs, right now. And he is not keen on taking your position." Gandalf smiled to himself, seeming lost in thoughts. "He's doing you wrong, too, in believing you'll not able to lead the wood elves." 

After a short silence, Gandalf continued. "On a entreaty from Elrond, but also on my own will I now stay here, Legolas Greenleaf, and I ask you not to leave Rivendell yet. You wouldn't have a chance against the orcs. They're increasing in numbers." Hearing this, his opposite had stiffened. Gandalf waited patiently, and finally Legolas seemed to relax "You're known as a friend of the elfish people, Gandalf Stormcrow." he said. "And perhaps Elrond indeed is caring more than I give him credit for. But this doesn't change our decision to leave." He made a small denying gesture with his hand when Gandalf wanted to say something, and continued. "This is not my decision only, but the will of my people. I can not – and I will not – forbid them to seek their revenge. We have had our own council, and everyone was allowed to express his opinion concerning our future doings. Nobody even considered staying behind, when it goes against our arch-enemies." A proud, even tender smile came to his lips, soon replaced by an angry scowl. "Elrond can replace me, if he wishes so. It won't change anything." "I understand." Gandalf said, shortly. "But I have been thinking about what Elrond has said." Legolas continued. "And I'm ready to make some allowances to him. The elves which are still hurt, too old or too inexperienced, as well as our women, will stay behind. I had to order this explicitly. They did not like it at all, but finally accepted my decision." Gandalf looked incredulously, and again a proud smile was on Legolas lips. "They're fine archers, as fine as most of our hunters. Living in the mirkwood has teached us not to waste their skills. They're longing to kill some orcs, too. 

Furthermore, we will not leave immediately, since we do not have enough bows and arrows ready. Until our weapons are finally forged, we'll have some days of good rest which will strengthen us. That's all I'm willing to offer Elrond –and you as well. But I'm expecting something from him in return." "You do?" Gandalf said. "Yes." Legolas said, his face unreadable. "Elrond shall remove his spies. We won't leave without telling him so." "Spies?" echoed Gandalf. The doubt in his voice seemed to rattle even Legolas. "Well.." he continued. "We're feeling observed, as if invisible eyes were spying on everything we do. We tried to locate them, without success, but still... We know they're there." Gandalf considered his statement. He knew how sharp the instincts of wood elves usually were, and thus didn't take their feelings lightly, but what Legolas suspected was beyond his imagination. Never would Elrond take such a desperate measure. He shook his head."Elrond doesn't send spies." he said. "Be assured of that, Legolas Greenleaf." 

"Then it is your spy which is observing us." the elf dryly went on. "My spy?" Gandalf thought, clearly irritated now. "This is getting ridiculous!" He gave Legolas a questioning glance, detecting the hint of a smile on his lips. "Well, at least this strange little creature has arrived in Rivendell in your company!" Legolas smile grew, and at last Gandalf understood. "Sam!" he said with a short laugh. "One of my hobbit friends from the shire. Sam has not seen an elf before, and he is fascinated from your race. He has heard much about you and your songs, that's why he's tiptoeing around you. To catch a look at a true sylvan elf; or at least a few tunes of their singing." "If that's so, we will fail to notice him further, as long as he wishes to see us." Legolas said, his face serious. "But he won't hear any merry tunes from the wood elves – except war songs, that is." "It shall be this way." Gandalf said, his voice was heavy, his smile quickly lost. "It seems that nothing I say or do will make you change your intentions. I wish you luck, Legolas Greenleaf, you and your elves, even though you all will rush headlong into ruin." 

With this words he turned and started walking back to Rivendell, as slowly as he had come. Again he couldn't avoid the rising of dark thoughts in him. Instinctively he wrapped his grey cloak tighter around him. It was still cold out here.

** VII. **

Both of them were right. Gandalf, because he vehemently rejected the mere thought Elrond would be sending spies, and Legolas and his wood elves, which felt observed. They were. From Saruman's spies. 

**To be continued...**

.


	6. Slipping masks

**Slipping Masks**

** I. **

Saruman did hold up an extended network of spies from every origin and species. He´d created it long ago, in the years when he actually had to fight for his power, and ever since then it had been of great value for him. He still used it whenever he thought it appropriate. Like now. 

Four days had passed by, four long, endless days in which the gold smith had not returned with Thranduil's ring. He should have reached Rivendell long ago, if everything would have gone according to their plans. Saruman did not fear that the sneaky human would try and betray him, he was far too cowardly to even think so, and the ring was valued only by the ones which knew his secret. Few did. It would be folly to try and sell it to someone else than him, and he´d made sure that the gold smith knew that.

The spies he used this time were the screekers, quite large, black raptor birds of the woods, hated by every living creature sharing their environment; for they hunted down everything, plundered nests, killed helpless young in the absence of their parents, and were usually met in large flocks which allowed them to attack even larger prey. They were not natural to Rivendell, but since the wood elves could not know that (and were used to the sight of all kind of strange and ugly creatures from the Mirkwood) they would not notice. They served him, as they would serve anyone which provided them with food, and he could understand their language, although with some difficulties.

He had sent them against the wood elves as soon as they had left the heart of Rivendell to built their provisory new accommodations, but thus far they had not reported him anything of value. Least of all about a little ring... 

There was no need to send a spy against Rivendell, since the great Elrond himself told him –in detail -everything of importance happening in his reign. The elf was working hard on his own downfall! 

This thought brought a sly smile on Saruman's lips, soon becoming tight again when he remembered the lost ring. His longing for the elven rings had become almost unbearable...

Day by day his control, and patience, grew thinner, when he had to let go Elrond without taking his ring, too. But he would pull himself together. He had not waited for so long, not wasted that much energy into his plans to ruin it all in one short moment of overwhelming greed... 

First things first. He had to take precaution to lay hands on Thranduil's ring. Then he'd go after Elrond's ring. If his spies were not able to tell him anything about it…

Someone else would. Legolas, Thranduil's son, king of mirkwood, fallen out of favour with Lord Elrond, eye-witness of the murder of his father, surely would. He would get out of this elf everything he needed to know! And no one would suspect anything. For he was only a dutiful wizard who tried – as Gandalf had done – to bring reckless wood elves to their senses. He had no doubt that Elrond would even be grateful for him doing so…

** II. **

Saruman had told his spies to look out for an opportunity to meet the wood elves´ king alone. He did not have to wait for long until they returned to tell him it had come. According to them, most wood elves had searched some rest, but a handful of them had been heading north, probably towards the little clearing where their fallen had been buried. How courteous from them! The clearing was distant from Rivendell as well as from the wood elves´ provisory huts; and already near the frontiers of Rivendell, frontiers which were only lightly guarded. If Legolas was among the elves at the clearing, there could be no better place, no better time to speak to him... for near this place, outside the elfish land, but still nearer than they had dared to approach in ages, his dark allies from the north laid in wait, waiting for his commands.

** III. **

Legolas was there, as he had expected it, accompanied by only a handful of elves. They kept some distance to their king, to leave him to his grief, or on his command, Saruman couldn't tell. He didn't care. This was well according to his plans; for only few ears would hear what he had to say to Thranduil's son. Some screekers were sitting in the trees near the wood elves and sleepily blinked down on them. They were watchful, even though the majority of them did fight for a bloody corpse which might had been a hare earlier.

Thranduil´s heir had heard his approaching, for he had stiffened, like the wild animals of the forests did when they sensed some danger; and were listening intently. Then he turned, his face an unreadable mask, for which Saruman had to admire him, since he clearly felt the insecurity Legolas radiated. Yes, the elves feared him, and this one was no exception. 

"Would it not be better for you to rest awhile, Legolas, king of mirkwood?" he said. The elf didn't respond, just watched him, warily. Saruman sighed inwardly. He wasn't in a mood for small talk, and the greed for the rings burned in him, so he did not intend tiptoeing around his request. How could he ask the prince about his father's ring without raising his suspicions? He noticed the questioning glance Legolas gave him, and he lifted his head to start his inquiry when he suddenly went rigid. "The ring..." he said, hoarsely. "Thranduil's ring..." 

Bewildered Legolas took hold on the heritage of his father, which he carried on a small silver chain around his neck. He´d not forgotten about it. He would give it to his brother, like he had promised his dying father, as soon as Elwyne reached consciousness again..."Yes!" he started, but the wizard's behaviour let him stop mid-sentence. Saruman did not listen to him. He reached for the ring. Legolas shrank back, but only a little. The small movement was enough, though, to wake Saruman from his trance-like state. He dropped his outstretched hand. The wizard´s breathing was laboured. Still confused; and almost sleep-walking from exhaustion, Legolas instinctively knew that something was wrong, terribly wrong, but he didn't understand, not yet. 

Saruman still stared at his ring. An almost ecstatic smile distorted his features. "It's here!" he panted. "The ring is here! I feared it lost in the burning forests of the mirkwood... Ha! It's here!" Legolas just stared at him. Saruman must have lost his mind! The wizard watched his ring, transfixed. Legolas instinctively closed his fist around it, a protective gesture. "Yes." Saruman said, still in a hoarse, hushed voice. "One of the three rings for the leaders of the elves. I thought it lost..." With a visible effort he pulled himself together and continued in a calmer voice: "Your father has handed his ring over to you. Did he never tell you anything about it?" Legolas flinched at his words. The memory of his father, dying in his arms, giving him the ring, was still too painful. Thranduil had not had much strength left to talk, then... "No." he answered, flatly. 

Saruman was sensible enough to let the subject drop. "It's a heritage from ancient times, in which a dark lord called Sauron lusted for the power over all Middle-earth. His plans have been thwarted once, by the allied forces of men and elves, as you´ll know, but I fear he's gaining strength again. The three elven rings, one of them given to your father, were forged by him as a tool for power. He's searching them now, for they still can serve his dark purposes. You´ve seen what he´s willing to do to get just one of these rings... Give it to me, elf, and I will keep it safe, and the dark powers seeking it will not be able to use it's strength. I, Saruman the white, will avoid this by wearing the ring, and with it´s help I´ll be able to defeat even Sauron himself; and all his dark allies." He held out his hand, demanding. 

Still hesitating, Legolas removed the ring from his neck. Saruman was right. The ring had brought his father, and his people, nothing than death. Perhaps Saruman, the wise and mighty wizard, could use it better, and fight the dark powers he was talking of... 

Saruman grabbed the ring from his hand. A forceful laughter shook his body. "One of the three..." he murmured. "One of the three..." It had a crazy note to it.

Then, within a second, he calmed again and turned to face Legolas, smiling. "I'm deep in your depths, prince Legolas." he said, his voice sombre. "With your ring you have brought a sign of hope and light into the growing darkness around us. ." He sounded strangely triumphant. He stepped nearer to the elfish prince.

Perhaps Legolas had been more on his guard, perhaps he had anticipated Saruman´s move, would it not have been for his exhaustion, and numbness. Suddenly, surprisingly, the wizard turned around. "What's happening there?" he asked, his voice scared; and in an instant the elf had turned himself too while grabbing for his dagger. Saruman had just waited for this. With a triumphant hiss he plunged his knife, thus far hidden in his right sleeve, into the prince's back. 

Legolas gave a small cry of surprise and pain, and his knees buckled, which saved him from a second plunge from the attacking wizard. His right hand, already weak and trembling, got a fleeting hold on his dagger. With a gasp he used it against his attacker, tore his clothes at the height of Saruman´s hip and inflicted a minor scratch on the wizard. Before he could lift his dagger again, Saruman had stepped back. A dreadful smile was on his lips. "Never underestimate an elf." he said. "These damned creatures are indestructible!" His voice was filled with erupting and unconcealed hate. "You wounded me, elf. You're going to pay." Legolas still knelt on the floor, the dagger stretched out in front of him, and tried not to faint.

"Why, Saruman?"he asked, sucking in air in painful gaps. "What..." "Fool of an elf." Saruman said. "You still haven't understood. The power of the rings has been wasted on your kind. You used it to heal, to grow woods and to make songs. I, Saruman, intend to use them more wisely – and thus will become the mightiest man of all lands in middle-earth. I'm truly grateful, elf, as I said before, that you brought me the ring. I believed it lost." 

He lifted his knife. "But no one shall know yet that I'm wearing Thranduil´s ring by now… and that's why you're going to die, Greenleaf." Legolas just stared at him with painfilled eyes. His dagger fell when his right hand suddenly seemed to have lost it's strength. Saruman knelt beside him and took a handful of Legolas hair. 

"Yes, you must die." he repeated, thoughtfully. His dagger came forth snakelike and buried itself deep in Legolas underarm, with which the elf had protected his throat. Cursing Saruman retrieved the dagger, and Legolas, king of mirkwood, would have received the deadly stroke if t had not been for an anguished scream, shattering the silence of the night.

** IV. **

"NO!" Sam screamed, in terror and fear, and the white clad murderer turned around, wrath and sense of guilt written all over his face, and stared wildly in the young hobbit´s direction. It was just lucky for Sam that the wizard expected a much bigger enemy and thus overlooked the hobbit, who stood halfway covered behind some bushes, or else Sam´s scream would have meant sure death for him. 

Saruman, outrageous to come across difficulties when his triumph had seemed that near; teeth bared, lifted his arm and sent a fireball, blindly and without aiming, in the direction from which he had heard the voice of his new adversary. It hit the tree standing right behind Sam, with enough force to add it a yawning wound. The power of the explosion sent Sam flying to the ground, and splitter and ashes rained down on him. The stinging smoke of fire and burned sap wood filled the air. Sam remained lying were he had fallen, terrified. If he had not been breathless from the violent impact of the explosion, he might have screamed, but thus far he even had difficulties to get enough air into his lungs just to stay conscious. There was a new explosion, shattering the bushes behind him, but it had less force, and while Sam tried to catch his breath, eyes desperately shut, an eerie silence was spreading out. Sam couldn't know that Legolas, with desperate courage, had jumped on the momentarily distracted wizard, and had made him tumble, thus gaining a few precious seconds to make their escape.

Sam could see a dark figure towering him suddenly though, and more scared than he had ever been in his life, he gave a small whimper, but he couldn´t put up any resistance when the figure over him grabbed him roughly and put him to his feet. "Run!" a voice hissed into his ear, and a push into his back emphasised it's command. "Hurry up. He won´t let us get far…" 

The voice was not unfriendly, only pressed; and breathless. The elf. Sam stared up to him, still petrified, and only the expression of fear on his face, which replaced the usually stoic expression of the elves, made him come back to his senses. Tumbling he started to move, but a few moments later his mind was functioning normally again, and he started to run in earnest, as fast as the darkness, and his short legs, would allow. He didn´t look back – he was far too scared to do so. But he could clearly hear that someone followed him, and he prayed that it was the elf, and not Saruman. 

** V. **

The two soldiers appointed to the second and third guard tower from the northern frontiers of Rivendell stood side by side, in a comfortable silence, and looked down from the city wall, more or less attentive scanning the dark thicket which represented the end of their land. "City wall" was a flattering name for the small defensive facility protecting the northern frontiers of Rivendell, for it was only a two meter high, very old, at some parts unstable, simple wall at which some kind of defensive passage had been added. Furthermore, it did not protect the city, but the wilder and scarcely inhabited parts of northern Rivendell. A second city wall, much higher, placed more southwards, effectively protected Rivendell. It was not known exactly if the Old Wall indeed had once protected a city. It was old, as old as the memory of elves, and so no one could really tell for what purpose it had been erected or by whom. 

It was there, though, and with it a small number of stony defence towers and three gates, which had been guarded since Elrond had taken the reign in Rivendell, day after day, if only by a handful of elves. His command to retake the guard at the Old Wall had not been too popular by the elves doing guard´s duty. Not only that they had to ride quite a distance even before their shift started (and the same way back before they could get their well-earned sleep), what was more, they were on duty all alone, which generally was dull and monotonous. And there was no prospect of a short visit, a little talk or even some refreshment a generous colleague would provide occasionally. No, the duty at the Old Wall was far from being popular. After the catastrophe of the mirkwood Elrond even had insisted on doubling the guardians. Well, one couldn´t be careful enough, especially these days, although it was highly unbelievable that an orc would get lost in Rivendell, in the heart of the elvish realms…

One of the guardians was yawning discretely, when the other gripped his arm, anxiously. "Still." he hissed.

"Do you hear something?" His colleague looked puzzled, but then obediently listened. He was older than the other one, and his experience immediately told him that something was wrong. He needed two more seconds, then he understood. "The horses." he said, shortly. Now also the other elf knew what had disturbed him. They had left their horses right beside the gate they guarded, unbound, as it was the way of the elves. The animals had been quiet, half asleep, but now their ears were moving, and their hooves scratched the ground. One of them threw his head. Now also the elves could hear it. 

Someone was approaching, fast. Not from the north, from outside Rivendell, but from the city itself. He truly seemed to be in a great hurry, for they could hear now the sound of breaking branches; and the whip-like sound of small twigs which were bent forcefully and afterwards shoot back. Then a first, and a second strange tremor echoed trough the air. "What the hell…" one of the guards said and reached for his bow. His friend had already drawn his long knife. He sprang from the wall. 

Then they saw it. At first a small figure was emerging, running straight towards them. His face seemed distorted with fear, and when he had almost reached them, they could also see that he had blood on his right cheek, where thorns and twigs seemed to have scratched his skin. "What the hell…" one of the elves repeated and tightened his bow, cautiously, but he hesitated using it, though, for the creature hurrying towards them looked quite harmless… 

Then an elf broke through the thicket. They knew him instantly, as every rivendell elf would have. Legolas Greenleaf, king of the wood elves, troublemaker of the first grade, now replaced by Elrond. Bow and knife went up.

** VI. **

His left arm burned like hell and hung limply beside him. It was covered with a cold, sticky wetness, slowly trickling over his hand and to the floor. But this pain was nothing compared to the strange, numb stinging which came from his back. It brought a overwhelming weakness with it, in waves, and occasionally blurred his surroundings. And it paralysed his mind. Legolas instinctively knew he had to keep his wits together if he wanted to escape Saruman alive, but the wound in his back effectively prevented him to form a single clear idea. All he could think of was that he had to run. And to reach Elrond, anywhere, anyhow. The elven king had to be warned against the mad wizard.. He almost collided with the hobbit which abruptly had stopped his running. Panting Legolas looked up. Straight into a bent bow and a lifted knife. 

In a defensive gesture he lifted his arm, slowly, to not unnecessarily irritate the two armed elves in front of him, and cried: "Be on your guard...the wizard..." His voice failed him, and he broke into a fit of coughing, which made it difficult for him to breathe. It was the hobbit who finally spoke for him. "Saruman!" he cried, with a high, clear voice, in which his terror and fear were clearly audible. "He's snapped. He pursues us, and he'll kill us if..." Something about him seemed to be persuading, since both elves facing them lost the angry glint to their eyes. 

Still, their weapons didn't move. "What exactly is happening here?" one of them inquired, full of mistrust, but Legolas, who finally had regained his breath, interrupted him. "He'll be here any moment now. Then all of us will be lost." he said coldly. "He tried to kill me before, and he'll try to kill Lord Elrond, too." Legolas wasn't sure about the latter, but he knew about the effect this would have on the two rivendell-elves. Indeed the elder elf lowered his knife. "Good." he said. "Who's pursuing you? Saruman?" The younger elf's jaw was moving. He wasn't convinced yet. He didn't particularly like the wood elves, and this dislike was clearly written all over his face. "This is nonsense." he said. "Saruman would not..." He never got the chance to announce what Saruman would do or not. Something hit him from the side, with terrible force, and his bow flared up in flames. He was probably dead already before he hit the floor. 

His colleague was an experienced warrior. Although he must have been shattered by the death of his friend, he threw his knife in the direction in which he'd to suspect the assailant within a split second. He seemed to have aimed well enough, since Saruman let him the time to get his bow ready. He started to supply the wizard with arrows, and since an elvish bow is feared also by wizards, even Saruman had to search for some cover. "Hurry up!" the soldier bellowed. "Open the gate and take the horses! I'll follow you in a second." 

Legolas did as the Rivendell elf suggested, while black desperation constricted his throat. He hated to let the guard try and fight Saruman alone, even more so, because he knew that the elf would not stand a chance, but he himself was unarmed; and he had a duty to fulfil. The duty to warn Elrond. And perhaps – if he got the chance – to save the life of the little hobbit which had saved his own life before. Behind him the singing of the elven hair string could still be heard, as well as the silent sounds when the arrows hit home somewhere. He listened, while in a hurry he opened the gates before him. Against his expectations they didn't put up any resistance and swung easily open. They had more difficulties with the horses, though.

The horses had been scared by the fight activities, and they nervously pranced on the spot. Sam had tried to approach one of them, but he shrank back when the horse, now increasingly afraid, started shying. Legolas hesitated for a second, then, with a pliant crack, he brought himself on the frightened horse's back. A short rearing, a prancing to it's side, then the animal stood, motionless. He'd been trained by elves, and some pressure of Legolas tights, and a few words in elvish, hastily whispered into his ear, had brought him to reason. 

Legolas grimly smiled and threw a quick glance into the direction where he expected Saruman. He couldn't discern the wizard, but his opposite. The rivendell elf had retreated into the direction of the gate, for his arrows were almost spent. Still Saruman did not make a move. A swift grip; an encouraging command; Legolas had dragged Sam before him on the horse, urging it forward. The second one instantly followed, as herd animals tend to do. The rivendell elf seemed to have had an eye on their activities as well, for he suddenly dropped his bow (not having more than three arrows left, anyway) and with an acrobatic crack, which was in no way inferior to that from Legolas, he brought himself on the back of the second animal to follow Legolas and Sam. 

For a moment it seemed they really would escape the wizard's wrath, but then the back horse reared; with a blood-curling cry of pain; and then it fell to his side. It rolled over; for the fireball Saruman had sent had burned it excessively. If his rider did still feel how the full weight of the animal was put on him, or if he'd been already dead at this point, no one could tell. 

Legolas had turned his horse with a imperious gesture, and for a moment his scared eyes met those of Saruman, which had left his cover. The wizard watched him intently for a few seconds– then he smiled. With a desperate gasp Legolas forced his animal to turn again. It started to, obediently, but then it slipped on a wet branch, and it fell. Legolas was swift enough to save his left leg from being crushed by the weight of the horse, but Sam, much less experienced in riding, still paralysed from fear, violently hit the floor. His fall seemed to have worn him out, for a few moments he lay where he had landed, then he awkwardly slow started to get on his feet again. 

The sudden fall of the horse had saved their life. Another one of Saruman's terrifying fireballs had gone harmlessly over their heads; and the second one hit the other horse, which had come to his feet, tumbling, mad with pain, and thus involuntarily blocking Saruman's view on his intended victims. For a second the poor beast seemed like a living torch, while it stood motionless, before the muscles and sinews of his body suddenly lost their strength; and it collapsed. It was only a few precious seconds the animal did find for Legolas and the hobbit, but the elf knew to use them. Their horse had managed to come to his feet again. It was a matter of seconds to grab the hobbit, climb on the horse's back a second time, and to run. Into the thicket. Away from Saruman. Away from Rivendell. 

** VII. **

At first Saruman's rage had been outrageous. To have the object of his desire, the first elven ring, right under his eyes, only to loose it again an instant later... it was almost too much to bear. But then, when he stood beside the horse's and watched the damned elf escaping, together with Gandalf's little charge, into the darkness of the woods surrounding Rivendell, he'd gained back his usual calmness. He didn't even make a try to stop the fugitives. He'd been thinking. Legolas, and with him Thranduil's ring, were lost for him for the moment, but this would change soon enough. He knew how the elf was thinking, and he knew for sure that Legolas would come and try to warn Elrond from him. Sooner or later he'd run into his arms, one way or another... 

No, the escape of the elf and her companion was not a defeat. He, Saruman, would know how to get his use out of this. His look fell on the bodies of the killed rivendell-elves, and suddenly he knew how he would proceed. Let Legolas believe he'd defeated him. It was not true; he'd played right into his hands... 

With a imperious gesture Saruman commanded some of the screekers, which had already started to fight for the flesh of the dead horse, to him. Some of them obeyed, if only unwillingly. "Go and look out for my orcs." Saruman said. "You know where they dwell. Tell them I want the fugitive elf, as well as her companion, alive. And send two of them to me." With angry screams three of the black birds lifted themselves into the sky and vanished into the forest. Saruman watched them contentedly, before he looked again at the elves he'd killed. Yes, a few changes now and there... 

A nasty surprise would expect Thranduil's son, if he really managed to get back to rivendell. If the orcs didn't get him before. 

** VIII. **

Sam felt like being caught in a nightmare. Just a moment ago he had observed Saruman's murderous attack on an elf, and now he sat on a galloping horse, securely held by the same elf (from which Gandalf had told him that it was a prince), and could barely breathe because of the cold fear constricting his throat. He had sat on ponies before, in the shire, yes, he'd even liked them, but his rides had been more slowly, much more slowly. He instinctively knew that if he should fall from the horse he would most likely split his head on a stone. Or break all his bones. Or... Cold sweat was on his face, he felt dizzy, and there were moments when he was sure he was going to be sick, but luckily they went by after a few more seconds. 

On they rode, in a racing pace, the trees and bushes of the wood nothing more than a shapeless blur. They were still near rivendell, but for how long? And how long the shadows behind them, and aside them, would remain harmless? Sam had heard it, over the sound of the galloping horse, over it's laboured breathing, over the sound of his own pulse throbbing in his head: The trampling of heavy feet. Occasionally shouts in a language he didn't know and didn't want to know. They were right behind them. They' barred their way back to Elrond; ugly, huge, terrible black creatures. And now they hunted them. Sam didn't want to think about what they might would do if they got .hold on them. 

They were too many. Too many for a little hobbit and an elf, anyway. An elf which was additionally hurt. Sam had seen it all too clearly how Saruman had stabbed him. And the elf had screamed. He'd been wounded. His grip around the hobbit was still strong, but how long would it remain so? Didn't he already loose blood, didn't he gasp from time to time, as if he was in pain? Sam closed his eyes and started murmuring little prayers, and even though it was not their meaning which filled him with new strength, it was their familiar, consoling rhythm which calmed him down, a little.

Now the elf reigned the tumbling, sweating horse, straightened himself in the saddle and listened intently. Sam could not hear anything except the humming of numerous wood insects and the quaking of some frogs nearby, but he listened as well; and gave a fearful look to his companion, attentively. "I do not hear them." Legolas finally said. "We may have lost them." He sounded tired. "Let us rest for a while, young hobbit, for I fear our horse, being hit by some nasty wizard magic, will not last for much longer." He swayed in the saddle. Sam cast down his eyes. He did not want to see the elf's weakness. Legolas glided down from the horse's back and lifted Sam to the ground. Again he listened, then he started to climb on a beech which stood beside them. The animal by now had lowered itself to the ground. From time to time it gave a little snort. The poor beast was in a great pain. Sam's eyes wandered back to the elf. He was right, they wouldn't go anywhere with this horse. Their only hope was that they indeed had put a save distance between them and their pursuers, and that these ugly creatures were no trackers. And that the terrible wizard did not have the means to find them. And that.... 

With a weary sigh Sam decided that it would be safest to stay in contact with the elf, and he started to climbing after him. The beech had strong branches, offering places to seat, and a thick cloth of bright green spring leaves, which covered them.

"Now at last, my hobbit..." Legolas said after they had seated themselves. "...I find the time to assure you my gratefulness. You have saved my life, halfling. I, Prince Legolas, am deep in your depths. Now please tell me, master hobbit, to whom I extend my thanks?" "Sam Gamgee, from the Shire." Sam said between chattering teeth and made a polite bow. His eyes were shining with excitement. "I'm honoured, prince Legolas!" Against his will Legolas smiled, if only for a moment. "Gandalf has told me about you." he said. "But I fear that saving me has put you in a danger which is more threatening than you think, my hobbit. Saruman the white is a mighty wizard, and I know something about him which no one else knows. You, since you have observed his dark intentions, and even thwarted them, are a thorn in his eye as well. He'll try to kill us both." Sam slumped, and his heart sank. He couldn't keep the fear out of his voice when he finally asked: "The black creatures? Do they obey his command?" "Yes." Legolas answered. "And they are efficient in blocking our way back to Rivendell. But still it is of uttermost importance that I seek Elronds council. He must be warned about Saruman. Your security as well is of great importance to me, for you should not suffer further for your courageous feat." 

"Gandalf! Gandalf!" Sam put in, excitedly. "Gandalf could help us!" The elven prince closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Perhaps he could." He said in a cold voice. "But I have trusted Saruman too, before. Perhaps..." "Never!" Sam exclaimed with all the passion a hobbit could muster. "Never would Gandalf do such a thing!" Legolas smiled again.

"I'll go and try to reach Elrond AND Gandalf, then." "I'll accompany you." Sam said, relieved that this time his voice didn't tremble. "No, Sam." Legolas said, seriously. "I have an order of much more importance for you." He reached into a pocket of his tunic and brought forth the small ring, which had been carried by his father for long years, and which had passed on him after his father's death. Still he didn't know what exactly was special about it, or why Saruman so greatly desired it, but the wizard had talked about it's power. Even though he didn't understand all this, he knew one thing: The ring wasn't to fall into Saruman's hands. He laid it in Sam's Hand, closing the hobbit's finger around it. Sam looked as if the ring would might bite. His look flickered between it and the elf. 

"Now listen to me, Sam Gamgee." Legolas said, calmly, although the time burned under his nails. "Take the ring. It is the reason why Saruman tried to kill me. He mustn't get it, or great evil will arise. I'm going to try to warn Elrond now. If I am to fall into the hands of the orcs pursuing us, then the ring will be safe at least." He paused, then added: "It would be best if you stayed here. I'll come back to get you as soon as I've told Elrond about the menace from Saruman." There was pity in his face as he added: "I do not know how long it will take me. Three days, perhaps more, perhaps less. Wait for me." "How long should I wait?" Sam asked, trembling. "Four days." Legolas answered with a sigh. "If I haven't returned at this point, you'll have to try and reach rivendell on your own accord, or to find help somewhere else. But remember: the ring is not to fall into Saruman's hand. Whatever you do with it: Saruman shall not get it." Sam nodded solemnly.

** IX. **

Just a moment ago one of the healers in charge of mirkwood's true heir, Elwyne, had seen about the wounded prince for one last time. His brow was wrinkled in sorrow when he left. Obviously Thranduil's eldest son was not in a good shape. Saruman, patiently waiting in a death angel of the corridor leaving to the hurt elf, smiled contentedly. This was well according to his plans... 

As soon as the sound of the healer's footsteps had faded away, Saruman entered the sickroom, all the while assuring himself with quick glances that no one would see him doing so. Nobody did. Much to his relief he instantly saw that Elwyne was indeed in a bad shape, for he lay unconscious or sleeping, and he still didn't open his eyes when Saruman softly called his name. From his wounds nothing could be seen, for they were well hidden under the warming blankets covering the recovering elf, but his chalk-white face, the blue tinge to his lips, his shallow, though laboured breathing spoke for themselves: This elf was badly hurt. Not that this fact would have changed his plans... 

Saruman's smile widened when he took a small phial from his pocket; and poured it's contents into one of the medical flasks standing numerously on a chest of drawers beside the bed. Saruman held his eyes glued on Elwyne while he did so, listening intently for the sound of approaching feet, but nothing happened. Not that it would have been troublesome to be discovered here... He was a wizard! Nobody knew what healing powers he might yielded, and when he decided to use them. And Elwyne was important enough to gain a wizard's interest; for even Elrond, day by day, examined his recovery. Rumours had spread fast about the row between him and Legolas. Although Elrond didn't admit it, he surely would appreciate it if Elwyne finally would awake and claim his right to the throne of the mirkwood. 

Did Elrond really expect more reason from Elwyne than from his younger brother? Then he knew the wood elves less than Saruman had suspected him. He put the phial back in his pocket, carefully avoiding to touch it's edge. Still no one had come. Elwyne sighed in his feverish sleep. He was in obvious pain, and his lids trembled, as if some bad dreams were hunting him, but he did not wake. Saruman smiled again, a cruel smile, full of malicious triumph. "Rest well, Elwyne, heir of Thranduil" he thought. "Although you will not live long enough to succeed your estate." 

**To be continued...**


	7. Betrayed

        BETRAYED 

  
  
"Silence in the air  
is anybody there  
searching every sound  
walking on quiet ground  
somebody's out to get you  
hiding in shadows  
poison arrows  
somebody's out to break you  
hiding in narrows  
poison arrows  
don't give in  
don't come any closer  
no sir  
keep running  
running closer  
closer  
when you gonna break  
watching every move you make  
in everything you do  
evil eyes will be on you  
(...)  
what you gonna do  
time is running out on you  
any way you choose  
anyway you gonna loose  
(...)  
  
**Mike Oldfield: "Poison arrows"**

**  
  
**

** I. **

  
This night they all waited, waited for a long time. The hobbits for the return of their friend. The wood elves for the return of their leader. They all waited in vain.  
  


** II. **  
  
****

  
  
A quiet night was not granted to Elrond, too. When he heard the soft knocking at the door to his private room, he already knew with the sure instinct of the elves that no good news were awaiting him. With a sigh he got up, putting aside the old document he'd been reading thus far. He was tired, a state which was highly unusual with him, and accordingly nervous and irritable.  
  
"Yes?" he asked the elf interrupting his work, and he could read it in his haggard face that it was indeed an unpleasant message the other elf was about to deliver. "The captain of the guardians is here, Lord Elrond, as well as Raldon, the healer. They both have arrived in a hurry, just a few moments ago, and they wish to speak to you, urgently." He held the door for Elrond, thus inviting the elven king to follow him. Elrond sighed again and accelerated his steps. His uneasiness grew. That didn't sound promising after all! Was it this foolish Greenleaf again, throwing another tantrum? Who else but the wood elves could be the source of new trouble?  
  
The reality was worse than his darkest imaginations. At his sight the captain of the guards, in full armour, face dark, got up, and Raldon, which had not even seated himself, stopped his angry pacing and turned to him abruptly, having heard his approaching steps. Both of them started talking in unison, excitedly, only to stop seconds later, probably feeling ashamed that they had allowed themselves to show their distress. With a nod of his head the captain assigned the healer to speak first His hand never ceased to instinctively caress the hilt of the knife in his belt.  
  
Raldon didn't waste his time with a long introduction. "I've come here straight from the sickbed of Elwyne Thornbush." he said. "The elves who care for him have called me earlier." Elrond looked up in alarm. His mouth suddenly went dry. "The state of Thranduil's heir has deteriorated, much to our surprise." Raldon continued, and irritation was clearly audible in his voice. "You've reported that his condition was stable." Elrond said, carefully keeping his voice even. "He was." Raldon replied. "Thornbush was still in a bad shape, but he's been on his way to recovery. The crisis came this very morning, fast, and surprising. If it hadn't been for one of the healers looking after him in this early hours, he would be already dead by now. When I left to search your council, they still had to fight for his life, though."  
  
"Send word to Saruman and Gandalf." Elrond commanded. His lips formed a thin line. "Perhaps they can do something to save Thranduil's son." Raldon gave an approving nod, but the relief on his face was short lived. "You should send someone for his relatives, too." He said. "For I'm afraid it's looking grim." Elrond nodded absentminded. In his head the thoughts followed hot on each other's heels. If Elwyne would indeed die, then Greenleaf would be the last surviving member of Thranduil's family. Elrond did not even dare to fancy how a stubborn elf like Greenleaf would react to the loss of his last surviving brother... This just couldn't be true!  
  
Still lost in thoughts, he turned to the captain of his guard, which looked tense and angry. "I'm afraid I'm the bearer of even more bad news, Lord Elrond." he said. "Two of my men have been found dead this morning at the 3d northtower from the Old wall. Two guards. They've been stabbed." Cold anger was in his eyes. Elrond took in a deep breath and lifted an eyebrow, questioningly. "Orcs?"  
  
"No, Sir. We've searched the area between the old and the new wall thoroughly. Up to now we didn't find any intruders. I'm fairly sure there won't be any, too." "What does that mean?" Elrond questioned, somewhat impatiently. The captain usually wasn't a man of much words. He must be hiding something... "The murderer didn't come from outside Rivendell." the captain said and drew the knife he'd been fingering all the time. "He came from Rivendell itself. They will not have put up much resistance when he stabbed them..." he lifted the knife accusingly, "... with this." "Double the guards at the Old Wall." Elrond spat. "Every single guard is to be in a state of alarm in case of an emergency. Our best trackers are to be sent to investigate the scene of crime."  
  
The captain nodded; he'd given exactly these orders before he went to see Elrond. "I'll report on the events as soon as we know what exactly has happened." Elrond, already leaving, stopped to address him again. "Very well, captain." he said. "I will contact you as soon as I know more about the fate of Elwyne Thornbush." The captain merely nodded and watched him leave. "Strange times are these." he thought, shuddering. "When even Lord Elrond is losing his calm, and elves turn against elves." Then he shrugged and returned to his men. He was a soldier after all, and not a tactical leader like Elrond. He didn't know yet how prophetically his thoughts had been; and that there indeed elves would stand against elves. On different sides of a battlefield.  
  
  


** III. **

  
  
The wood elf warrior Mardin, accompanied by two other elves from his people, stood in front of the sick room of his prince, restlessly trudging to and fro. His eyes were red, and his face looked even darker as usual. His two companions, considerably younger, looked miserable, too, and held their gaze to the floor. They kept a careful distance to the other elves in this room, and the Rivendell elves, in their turn, took no notice of the silvan elves and quietly talked to each other in hushed voices.  
  
Aragorn, which sat there waiting as well could not fail to notice the tense atmosphere, but he was far too stirred himself to care. Already two hours had passed by since the healers had started their desperate fight for Elwyne's life, now supported by Gandalf and Saruman; and still no one had emerged from the room to let the waiting men and elves know about the state the royal patient was in. That it must be desolate, though, was easy to figure out for everyone seeing the amount of healers which tried to help the wood elf. Aragorn felt strangely touched, almost shaken by this new disaster, even though it clearly was of minor importance, comparing to the previous ones. Elwyne's unexpected relapse had worn him out more than he could admit to himself. He'd had the silent hope that things finally would take a turn to the better, and that at least Elwyne of all his closer friends would survive. Both this hopes were hanging now on a thin threat. And he'd seen Elrond's face; the elven king would take Elwyne's death as a personal defeat. As well as he would.  
  
So he waited, torn between hope and sorrow, like all the others, and when, after endless minutes, the door to the sickroom flew open and Elrond stepped out, followed by the two wizards, the former died, leaving room only for despair and grief.  
  
One could not read it in Elrond's face, but his walk was the one of an old man, and even Gandalf seemed more crouched than ever. Saruman had bright red spots on his usual pallid cheeks. The wood elf warrior planted himself before the elven king. "Is he..." he asked, stuttering quite uncharacteristically. "Is prince Elwyne...?" His sorrow was genuine enough, making Elrond get over the informal addressing. He didn't look at the soldier. "Elwyne Thornbush has died a moment ago." he announced, speaking more to himself than to anyone else. "I'm sorry." The wood elves winced at this as if being hit. They seemed shaken, like having lost their bearings, people caught in a nightmare and unsure if they were sleeping or not.  
  
"He's dead, then." Mardin said. His voice was husky. He didn't clear Elronds way. "May we see our king?" Elrond finally looked up. There was a strange light in his eyes. Now it was his turn to block his opposite's way. "No." he said, with enough authority in his voice to make it clear that he did not bother to explain his refusal. Even Mardin seemed to sense this, for he involuntarily straightened, and his "Why, Lord Elrond?" came out more respectfully than he probably had intended.  
  
Elrond looked at him, sharply. "Where's Legolas Greenleaf?" he asked back. "I've sent for him, too!" Mardin's face fell. "I was just going to ask you the same question." he answered. "For yesterday night he has not returned to our dwellings. We thought he'd decided to stay in Rivendell for the night, after his long talk with Saruman." The spots on Saruman's cheeks became even brighter. He met Elrond's questioning glare and shook his head, silently. "We did separate - things unsorted - at the clearing with the graves of the wood elves." he announced. Mardin looked really upset now, while Elronds face got darker. "His brother has been asking for him, the last few minutes." he murmured. "Again and again." Mardin winced again, and his gaze turned to the floor. He preferred not to think about how Legolas would take this new tragedy. Elrond looked as if HE was imagining it, though.  
  
"Well then." he finally said. "May you offer the wood elves my deepest condolences. We'll take precautions for Elwyne's funeral." He stepped forth, and Mardin, still like in trance, gave way. He shook. Another elf, which had silently waited in the background of the room, seized the opportunity to address him. He wore the uniform and the signs of a captain. "If you meet prince Legolas." he said amiably. "You may give him his knife back. He has left it here." And he put the weapon, fastened to his belt thus far, into Mardin's hand. Mardin gave a short look at it, then he pushed it into his own belt.  
  
When he looked up, he was confronted with an angry looking elven king again, much to his surprise. Elrond's eyes were glowing, and a dangerous smile was on his lips. "This is Legolas Greenleaf's knife?" he formally asked, and Mardin nodded, his irritation raising. What sort of question was this? Where there not more important issues to discuss than one lost knife? Although it was highly unusual for Legolas to carelessly leave behind one of his precious weapons...  
  
Elrond and the captain exchanged a short look, and Mardin eyed them suspiciously when they left him to his own thoughts without a further word. Something was terribly wrong here! Why all this secrecy about Elwyne's body? What about the knife? And where the hell was Legolas? His anxiety grew even stronger than his anger of being treated by these oh-so civilised, arrogant rivendell-elves like an idiot! He'd been far more concerned, though, if he had known that Legolas would remain untraceable for much longer...  
  


  
  


** IV. **

  
  
"But why should he do such a thing?" Aragorn asked, face red with anger. "It just doesn't make any sense!" He looked around, questioningly, accusingly, straight into the faces surrounding him. From the participants of the new council, summoned to answer this new crisis, only Gandalf's eyes met his angry glare, calm and impersonate, making him look very elfish indeed. Elrond, as well as his two counsellors, pretended to not have noticed his outburst. The captain of the guards though looked slightly annoyed. Perhaps he'd interpreted Aragorn's words as doubts at his own testimony. Saruman smiled, condescending, and Aragorn felt a strong wave of antipathy against the wizard washing over him. He struggled to keep his face even. He couldn't fight these feelings against Saruman, although he'd tried, since he respected the wizard, like all the others did. "It's weird! Only because it was Legolas' knife being found by the killed rivendell-elves does not mean that he has anything to do with this ghastly crime..."  
  
"You do not know everything yet." Elrond gravely said, thus stopping him mid-tracks in his tirade. "The murder of the two guards is not the only crime which calls for our meeting." Aragorn watched him silently, inviting him to continue, while Gandalf and Saruman exchanged a knowing glance. "I'm talking of the murderous attempt on Elwyne Thornbush, the king of mirkwood." Aragorns heart skipped a beat. "Murder? Murderous attempt? What the hell does that mean?" Elrond gave him one these looks he was famous for. "Elwyne Thornbush isn't dead." he then said. From the corner of his eyes Aragorn could see that Saruman wrinkled his brow in anger at the elven king's words. Obviously he would have preferred Aragorn not to know. The ranger surely would have felt an utter relief if he hadn't known for sure that Elrond was keeping something back...  
  
"Thanks god" he said, his voice sounding hoarse in his own ears. "But you've talked of an attempted murder." "Someone has tried to poison the prince while he was still very sick." Elrond explained. "He has filled a fast acting poison - it's origins are still not known - into one of the prince's medical flasks." Aragorn stared at him, terrified. "One of the healers looking for Elwyne unknowingly applied some of this medicine to the prince. The killer has only made one mistake: He chose too strong a poison. When Elwyne began to toss around in his deep unconsciousness, and got spasms, the healer suspected that something was wrong with the medicine he'd used. His quick thinking surely has saved the prince's life..."  
  
Aragorn felt as if he'd taken a fist right into his stomach. "Poisoned..." the word resounded in his head, and suddenly he knew why all the others wore grim faces. A poison of unknown origin..."Why did you announce him dead?" he asked, pulling himself together with great effort. "The murderer must not get a second chance to fulfil his filthy task." Elrond answered. "He might even have partners in crime somewhere. Elwyne's life on a threat. He needs our protection." "You all think it was Legolas." Aragorn said, resigned. "But you're wrong. He's not capable of such a crime. I...I just know it for I have known him before!"  
  


** V. **

  
"As you said quite truthfully, Aragorn..." Saruman spoke up for the first time, "..You USED to know Legolas Greenleaf, in better times, before the orcs invaded the mirkwood. Everyone present here could give a testimony that he'd changed after the death of his father. We can only assume just what the death of his family, the extermination of his people, and the loss of his home, have caused in his mind. He may have been honest, valiant, brave, adventurous, earlier, as you first met him.  
  
But now there's only one feeling left in him, consuming him: Hate. That's how I got to know him. You could read it in his eyes, in every of his words: A burning desire for revenge. It's his new and only god, and he's willing to sacrifice even the last surviving elves of his people for it."  
  
Elrond nodded slightly, which was acknowledged by Saruman by a small smile. "Then there's the first backslash. Lord Elrond is refusing to take part in his plans, denies him the revenge which he's living for. Even worse, he's challenging him his role as a leader. Doing so he only deepened the young prince's hate, a hate which already had poisoned his mind." The word "poisoned" was only slightly emphasised.  
  
"He must have figured out then that Elrond would have the will to reign at his place. That he might have made an agreement with his elder brother; to replace him and to give up any revenge plans against the orcs. It was then when he most likely formed the idea to do away with his brother. As a caring relative he'd the possibility to enter and leave the room of the elder prince whenever he wanted. The healers will confirm that he'd been there often enough, as often as you, Lord Elrond, by the way. Your presence may has involuntarily added to the evil plans in Greenleaf's mind. To poison one of the medicaments has been an intelligent move from his side. If fortune hadn't been merciful with Elwyne, no one would have unravelled his brother's doings..."  
  
Saruman stopped and watched them, silently, one after another. "Legolas must have been out of his head, from hate and desperation. He may not even have planed it, but acted out of panic..." That was too much. Aragorn couldn't take it any longer. "This is nuts!" he burst out, the hostility against the wizard clearly audible in his voice. The angry glare he got from Saruman was proof enough that the wizard felt the same. "Why has he escaped then, over the north frontier, not before having killed two non suspecting elves?" It's not making sense!"  
  
There was only fatherly kindness in Saruman's face when he turned to address him. And pity. "You still have to learn more." he stated. "There was another reason for Legolas to murder his brother, and for his escape." He threw Elrond a questioning glance. The elven king silently motioned him to continue. "The reason was one of the elven rings." There was a touch of awe in the wizard's voice. "Thranduil was a bearer of one of those rings. At the day of his death he gave it to the only son witnessing his dying, Legolas, youngest of his siblings, no doubt telling him to hand it to his oldest brother, the future heir of the mirkwood's throne. Thranduil couldn't know that only two of his sons would survive the day...  
  
I can only guess what was going on with the ring then, but I think Legolas has handed it to his brother quite immediately, as his father had wished him to do, in ignorance of the true nature of the ring. But instantly the things began gliding out of his hands, and being no fool, Legolas noticed that together with the ring he'd given away his leading qualities. You personally questioned them, Lord Elrond." For a brief moment there was a tortured look in Elrond eyes. The wizard's voice went on.  
  
"So he decided to get the ring back, ignoring the fact that it legally belonged to his brother. He met no difficulties while he carried out his plans. Elwyne Thornbush surely was not able to call him to account..." It was so convenient! Little by little Aragorn's anger was replaced by cold fear. Of course he'd heard of the elven rings... and the strange happenings in rivendell, seen in the way Saruman had put it, suddenly began to make sense, a terrible sense. The wizard's words were like the points of small arrows, carefully aimed to tear down Aragorns -or anyone's- conviction of Legolas' innocence. If he continued to just sit here and let Saruman continue with his nonsense, it would mean Legolas condemnation, for he could clearly see the others hanging on Saruman's lips eagerly.  
  
"And then, hunted by his guilt, gripped by sudden twinges of remorse, he decided to flee, even though he owned now everything he wished to in his boundless greed for power." he quipped, sarcastically, but this time it was Elrond himself who motioned him to be silent.  
  
"He escaped, indeed." Saruman continued, not commenting Aragorns remark. "May it be remorse which made him do so, may the fear of discovery, I cannot tell. But listen to me further. Yesterday, when darkness was about to fall, I decided to talk to Greenleaf because of his unholy desire for blood. I met him in a strange mood, secretive and all excited, but as you can imagine, I did not know the reason for this at this point. But there was something else catching my eyes: A small piece of jewellery he was wearing on a fine chain around his neck. The ring. I asked him about it; and he got nervous even more; and I found that he was unable to meet my eyes. I told him about the power of the ring, unsure whether he knew. From then on he refused to listen to me further, and when I tried to press the matter, he shrank back from me. I let him go, unaware of the crimes which brought the ring into his possession. But my words, heard with a guilty conscience, must have sounded like accusations, and driven by panic, he decided to escape our reach. He couldn't expect the support of his loyal wood elves any longer, once it would be known that he has slay his own brother, their king. In rising fear he turned to the north, where the guard on rivendell is not that strong. The soldiers may have asked him about his errands, perhaps they even have tried to stop him, noticing the state he was in. A killer gets used to murder. They probably didn't even put up much resistance. With their death they bought Legolas some precious time, in which his flight could not be discovered; and no one would be able to tell later on in which direction he'd escaped.  
  
So he now owns the ruling ring, but he's alone, unpredictable, and desperate." The made a sinister pause. "He may will seek himself allies in the north."  
  
One of the elfish counsellors gasped; it was the only sound breaking the shocked silence which followed Saruman's words. The wizard threw another glance to Elrond. The elven king calmly continued: "Our scouts have been telling me recently that there are some orc troops swarming the woods near Rivendell. Orcs and creatures even worse. The ring Legolas carries with him shall not be lost there - nor shall he fall into the hands of the orcs. Even if they would not appreciate the true nature of the ring - others might will. We have to find Legolas Greenleaf, and fast. Saruman, some of our best trackers, and I myself will leave instantly to trace him. We'll bring the ring back safely."  
  
Then he addressed Aragorn. "I would like to have you at my side as well, but I need you here; mainly to keep an eye on the wood elves. Elwyne's supposed death has made them even more rebellious." Aragorn nodded, absentminded, and Elrond gave him a small, yet grateful smile.  
  
The ranger felt numb and tired. He didn't believe a single word of what Saruman had said, but it was no rational feeling. He just didn't want to believe that someone he'd counted as a friend would be capable of such a gruesome crime. Saruman's speech had irritated him a great deal. It had sounded wrong in his ears, as if the wizard had not spoken freely, but had told them some long, well prepared words instead... He turned to face Gandalf, the only person remaining in Elrond's room. "Legolas Greenleaf is innocent!" he said, rather fiercely. "Never would he have poisoned his brother! I know, for I know him better than any of you does!" Gandalf faced him, his faced wrinkled in sorrow. "Will you take council from me, Aragorn, son of Arathorn?" he asked, and after he got a silent nod from the man, he continued gravely: "Do not wear your heart on your tongue. For there is far more poison around here than the one which almost took Elwyne's life." Aragorn looked at him dumbstruck, but the wizard left the room not caring to explain his cryptical remark.  
  


  
  


** VI. **

  
Once again he turned his head to look out for the little hobbit, which had seemed quite small and lost when Legolas had left him, but now he couldn't locate him anymore through the thick spring canopy. Legolas stopped, just for a moment, as if to acknowledge the bravery of the hobbit for one last time, then he ran. Not half as fast as he wished he would. Exhaustion had left his limbs clumsy, and the pain and the blood loss did their share to slow down his pace. Soon enough it became painful just to draw enough breath into his lungs, and a few times he tripped over roots or branches he just hadn't seen in time. The blood was throbbing in his ears, dampening every other sound to a degree that even the plumb orcs could have approached him easily without raising his attention...  
  
Then it was over. His knees trembled with weakness, and he was tumbling more than running, and he felt warm, sticky blood trickling down his back again. Legolas stopped and tried to calm his flying breath. A merciless exhaustion had overcome him, and blackness began nibbling at the edges of his consciousness and blurred his surroundings. The elf leaned himself against the stem of an old oak and closed his eyes. The cracked bark of the tree felt good to his back, and the rustling song of the leaves above him was lulling, tempting...  
  
A sharp pain, knifelike, went trough his body, startled him. With the wound in his back he'd sunken against the oak, overpowered by fatigue, and only the pain penetrated his dwindling consciousness. Legolas hissed as the pain didn't ease, but his mind became clearer. He straightened himself, again closed his eyes and took a few deep, calming breaths. Vivid pictures of Saruman, his attack, and Rivendell, went through his mind suddenly, as well as the image of Elrond, his proud face and the quarrel between them. Oddly enough it was the thought of the rivendell-king and his arrogance which sent a wave of adrenaline through Legolas' body, finally snatching him out of his reverie. He didn't even try to control his anger, gave free rein to his hate of Saruman, and his orcs. The all too familiar fury seized him, and suddenly there was no trace of the previous exhaustion left... Hate is a powerful mainspring.  
  
Then he ran again, not light-footed, but heavy and plumb, yet still he ran, and he heard the breaking of dry branches, the rustling of leaves and his own laboured breath. Still there was no sign of an orc nearby. After a while he'd to bit his teeth, for the wound in his back got going again, now that his life wasn't in immediate danger, sent hot burning pain all through his body. But although he didn't really realise it, it was not the wound which slowed him down, but sadness, which seized his limbs, paralysed him, and numbed his mind.  
  
The omnipresent trees with their projecting branches, densely grown, in full spring green, the climbing tendrils, the bushes, even the mosses and the ferns of the forest - they all were there, a dark, dense shelter above his head, around him - but still he didn't feel safe, secure, like he'd felt earlier, in the mirkwood, or in every other forest.  
  
There were branches, defensively raised against him, tendrils grabbing for his feet, twigs with thorns hitting after him... He felt strange, not connected to the woods anymore, like humans do when the night is falling over the trees. His heart became cramped from sadness. If it had not been for the rational part of his mind, driving him on, Legolas probably wouldn't have gotten far anymore. The tangible hostility of a forest was something he had never felt before, and it just pronounced his loneliness. "You've to warn Elrond." He clinged to this thought, it filled his head, became his mantra, whispered rhythmically with every breath; it drove him on. "You must warn

Elrond." His determination to do so even held the sadness at bay, for a while.  
  


  
  


** VII. **

  
  


  
Then his senses warned him that there were orcs nearby. The ugly creatures were neither careful nor attentive, but they were many. Hate constricted Legolas' throat, nearly choking him while he watched them In broad rows they advanced, their hideous faces tense, but their weapons were not ready, and they made progress only slowly. On they went, occasionally pushing a spear into the bushes around them, spying into the canopy of a tree, searching, sniffing, thus remembering of blood hounds pursuing a victim, trusting that it would not be able to defend himself to become dangerous even to their majority. They looked like searching for an elf and a hobbit...  
  
And they effectively blocked Legolas' way back to Rivendell.  
  
A small, demeaning smile appeared on Legolas' lips. The orcs were bad hunters, especially if their intended victim knew of his pursuers. They kept far too much distance between each other while searching. They were loud and destructive. And they didn't count on resistance. They were like blind in the forest which was probably not their preferred environment. If luck was on his side, he would pass them without them noticing it. If there wouldn't be more orcs troops, so he would find himself in between two fronts all too suddenly...  
  
Legolas felt strangely excited while he watched them. The hairs in his neck raised. It was unheard of the orcs moving in the sun. They must be highly motivated to do so... And suddenly he just knew that they were. They had been sent by Saruman, to hunt them down, and they would be facing the wizard's wrath if they did not succeed. Evidently they preferred the sun before Saruman...  
  
The orcs were still quite far. Legolas kept himself carefully hidden behind an old, mighty acorn, observing them, while his looks wildly roamed around. Then his plan was made. It was not really a plan, but merely a wait-and-see strategy if the plumb orcs would fail to notice him while they passed him, a strategy which probably would strain his nerves more than every sort of a fight, but still he had no choice. He did not have any weapon worth mentioning, his enemies were numerous, and he had his mission. He had to stay alive to warn Elrond.  
  
The orcs were nearer now. Legolas felt their foul, rotten odour stinging in his nose almost physically; but this was most likely just his imagination. Still he had enough time to climb on the acorn he was standing under, high enough to stay out of reach from the spears which were occasionally put into the tree crowns, and low enough that the tree did not start to sway under his weight, thus betraying him. He sat himself on a branch, every muscle, every nerve tense from strain. He withstood the urge to look down, but listened instead. His left thigh became cramped from it's abnormal position, trembling slightly. Only with great difficulty Legolas could still this small, yet treacherous movement. His excitement grew, and involuntarily he opened his hands and closed them again, as if handling an invisible bow. If he only had his bow here! Just his bow and some arrows... Oh, how he would show the orcs what it meant to hunt down an elf!  
  
Then the orcs were there, and the hate threatened to suffocate him. The cramp returned to his left thigh, but this time Legolas didn't care. The trembling had also seized his body. He bit his lips until he could taste blood in his mouth. Now! Now there was an orc emerging under the same tree he was hiding! The ugly creature did even put a hand on the bark of the acorn. His shoulders slumped. He did not even look up once. The sun seemed to have worn him out. Legolas still held his breath, ready to attack the orc the moment he discovered him. His shaking was uncontrollably by now. The orc's intended prey would not go down without a fight! There was a part in Legolas almost whising to be discovered. The hate of the orcs was painful now, almost unbearable. If they gave him the slightest reason... at least one orc would pay for his discovery with his life!  
  
Then the orc went on. Legolas forced himself to remain motionless; and he started breathing again. The trembling slowly subsided. The blood was hammering in his temples. He stayed where he was, motionless, squatted, and now, since the immediate threat was over, he even felt relieved of having been spared. He was wrong, though.  
  


  
  


** VIII. **

  
It were the screekers which betrayed him. These dark birds, having accompanied the orcs since they were always a promise for some meat, had not turned an eye from him for quite a while now, and they had waited, unsure if this silent creature in the tree was worth of being their next prey. But when Legolas -after what seemed like an eternity to him- got up from his sitting position, one of them cried out hoarsely, followed by the whole flock of birds only seconds later. Then the wood resounded from their hideous cries.  
  
For a few precious moments Legolas was paralysed from fright, but then his warrior's instincts kicked in, and he acted automatically, sprang from the acorn without bothering to climb down a few steps. He landed unfortunate on his left foot and had to clench his teeth against the hot wave of pain one of the strained ligaments sent through his whole leg. He ignored the pain and threw himself around. The screekers were flying around him numerous; a noisy, threatening black cloud. None of them dared to attack the elf, for it was a dangerous prey; so they confined themselves to nag. They preferred others to do the actual killing...  
  
The orcs were now about 30 meters away. They had turned, too, surprised by this sudden turmoil. For a moment they just stood there, motionless, both orcs and the elf, glaring at each other. Then Legolas started to run. This seemed to bring back the orcs to their senses; their roaring was equal to that of the birds when they set out to hunt the fleeing elf. Under normal circumstances Legolas would have been much faster than his plump pursuers. But these were no normal circumstances. The muscles of his thigh, cramped already before, disobeyed his command to relax. Already there were arrows flying all around him, getting uncomfortably near. Legolas was simply at the end of his strength. And he had a bad feeling in his stomach about the direction of his flight. He already knew instinctively that his exertions were in vain. He could see it when he considered the fact that the orcs were yelling triumphantly behind him. That they fanned out broadly, thus driving him effectively in just one direction. And he was right. After what seemed to him like an eternity, in which he only succeeded to bring about fifty meters between him and his pursuers, he stood in front of the mighty, silent abyss to which the orcs had directed him. Ironically it was the rocky riverbed of the river Loudwater, a natural border of Rivendell, which put an end to his flight. He was much nearer to his aim as he previously had thought ! But then again it was probably as far as never before. The abyss, from which Legolas now stood, was much too deep for anyone to try and cross it alive...  
  
The triumphant yells of the orcs became louder, mixed with the excited cries of the screekers. They even drowned out the wild rushing of the river, deep below him. But the only thing Legolas heard right now was his own heartbeat. Just below him, at least 30 meters deep, lay the river bed, behind him there were the orcs... It wasn't difficult for an elf to make his choice in this situation. Legolas jumped over the cliffs, followed by the angry cries of the orcs.  
  
  


** IX. **

  
  


  
  
He landed resiliently on a small ledge in the quite steep rocky abyss; which had been worked out and polished in thousand years of hard labour by the waters of the Bruinen. An alder had gained a foothold on this ledge. Her smooth, long, snakelike roots promised hold, so he could continue climbing down the gorge for a meter or two, but then his feet did not meet any resistance in the wall, although he frantically searched.  
  
Over him the yelling of the orcs came nearer, a few small stones and rocky particles rained down on him, one grazing the skin over his right brow. Legolas stilled his movements. He threw up his head and saw probably more than a dozen hideous black mugs, staring down on him, a hungry look in their eyes. And the points of equally numerous arrows, bolts and spears which did the same. Resigned Legolas closed his eyes. His efforts had not been enough. Right now the orc-arrows would pierce him, tear him into the yawning abyss; but strangely he wasn't afraid in this moment, felt nothing but the slight regret that the last thing he would see would be the ugly faces of his archenemies; and not the lovely woods of his home, or the faces of those he cared for.  
  
There were more hate filled yells, more stones raining down on him. Legolas reopened his eyes and looked up again. Thus far no one had even taken a proper aim at him... And for all he could tell the orcs were involved in a vivid discussion if they should kill him or not.  
  
"They wish to catch me alive!" the thought suddenly went through Legolas' head. "That's why they're hesitating to kill me." He clenched his teeth. He'd heard the rumours about the horrible things that happened to an elf which had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the orcs alive. He knew that they liked to "have sport" with their victims. But this was different.  
  
With a thud a courageous orc landed on the rock nose on which Legolas had escaped them earlier. He hissed, bared his teeth at the hanging elf, but then he held out one hand. The other was kept on his dagger. The picture of an orc holding out a helping hand was so absurd, so unbelievable, that Legolas' nerves, worn out from the last days' strain, couldn't take it any longer. He laughed out loud. The orc gnarled and reached out with his hand, as far as he could without risking a fall from the ledge. Legolas laughed again, but this time his laughter was stifled by a sob. The orc was here to help him! No orc would do such a thing only to gain an object for his cruel games. There must be something else behind the orcs' behaviour, and Legolas knew what it was. He felt his strength fading. Still he had not found a hold for his feet. Cold sweat covered his face, and burned in his eyes. Legolas took a deep breath to calm himself. He had two options: To fall into the river; or to be saved by the orcs. He did not waste another thought on the latter. He wasn't to fall into Saruman's hands again, for it had to be Saruman which had commanded the orcs to bring him back alive. Seen in this light, the screechers made more sense, too...  
  
  


** X. **

His hurt arm suddenly lost every strength. With a small, terrified outcry Legolas gripped the root more tightly, with his other hand, but strength was running out of it too, fast, merciless, like water from a broken pot. He watched his clenched fingers open, slowly, like in slow motion, and the black hand with the claws above him suddenly seemed over dimensional; outstretched in a promise of aid, of rescue. Legolas lifted his head and looked into the orc's distorted mug. The elf bared his teeth at him. Then he let go of the root. Even while he was falling he heard the angry cries of the creatures above him, cheated of their prey, and he felt a vague sense of triumph of not having fallen into their hands, then his fall was stopped by the cold, foaming water of the Loudwater.  
  
Cool, clear water instantly filled his mouth, his nose, and he felt the strange urge to panically row with his arms. His body was seized by a maelstrom, hit against a rock, but the pain he'd instinctively expected didn't arise, due to the cold water's paralysing, stunning effects. If his head would not have got over water by chance, he might have drowned before he would have managed to pull his senses together. But the two, three gasps of fresh, precious air he managed to pump into his lungs woke his will to survive, and Legolas started to fight. Again his head was overflowed with water, and he opened his eyes, wide, to the shimmering, shining surface over him; and a few tiring swimming movements bore again the reward of oxygen. Deeply he inhaled, and even managed to stay long enough at the surface to take a look around. The river had already drifted him off quite far, and from the orcs there was no sight or sound. They surely would search the river for him... His body again crashed against a rock, hurt arm first, and this time the cold was not enough to suppress the pain. Legolas winced. He had to be more careful, or he most likely would break an arm, a leg, or even something more vital, on the stones. Then again the river carried him away from the orcs, and towards Rivendell...  
  
If only he succeeded to keep his head above the water... Legolas advanced quite well this way indeed, at least for a while. He even reached a place where he might could have left the river, where the water flew into a broad natural canal, in which the current wasn't too strong. Legolas swam along. Was carried along. This was the shortest way to reach Rivendell after all... It was the cold which finally thwarted his plans. Little by little his body became more stiff, more immobile, and when he was smashed against a stone which he'd seen before, but which he couldn't avoid since his arms suddenly weren't willing to obey his commands anymore, he knew that it was time to leave the water. If he still was able to. A prickling tingle had seized his arms, his legs, and his lung seemed petrified, too, for he had to gulp in air in painfully small gasps. More than once his head was forced under water again, and he swallowed a lot of it. 

His body was shaken by a violent coughing fit when he was washed against a big rock, standing against the water in the middle of the river. A branch which had been deposited there, too, bore painfully into his leg, and the pain woke him enough to gather his last remaining strength to pull himself on the cold stone, thus leaving the water It was not too big a rock, just enough for Legolas to find a save, almost dry place, even though it was sprayed with foam occasionally. There he lay for a precious moment, just breathed and tried to suppress the shivering which shook his body. He was cold, so cold... and most likely still quite far from Rivendell. He needed to go on.. Go on... But there was another voice in his head, soothing, tempting; it whispered sweet words of rest, of free breath, of warmth. Legolas bravely tried to shut it out, but his senses started to deteriorate, he felt strangely light- headed, and lulled by the soft singing of the streaming water around him, Legolas fell into the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion. More northwards the orcs began searching the river banks.  
  


  
**To be continued...  
  
**

  
**Authors note**:  
  
Had a severe case of a "I-didn't-get-a-single-damned-review-depression" recently, resulting in sudden allergies against the computer and a full force writer's block. So please spare me this for the next chapter and review! Pretty please!!

  
  
  
  



	8. Doomed

Doomed

„I am lost in the black chamber

There's no way to turn it back

It takes me down forevermore

And death would be so sweet

I'm possessed by the old creature

Who has sweared to take my soul

Too late for me

In my hands it lies I thought

But I failed now he's in me

My soul is lost in his black chamber

I am gone"

**„Black chamber" by Blind Guardian**

**I. **

A roe licked her newborn twin fawns carefully, while nudging them, playfully, tenderly; to encourage them to try and do their first steps. Still she was exhausted from giving birth, but she seemed to feel safe, for her ears didn't play, and she was completely absorbed in the care for her fawns. 

She knew that her associate, though invisible, kept guard nearby, and furthermore she was quiet because she knew she was in an elvish forest, where nothing threatened her or her kids´ life. She, which greatly feared the encounter with humans, did not flee the elves, not in Rivendell.

Then the trampling of hoofs interrupted the morning idyll, and the roe raised her head listening, but still there came no warning from her partner's side. Still she lay relaxed, even exhausted, but now she was on her guard. 

In a case of emergency she would not only  have to defend her life, but also the ones of her newborn. She doubled her efforts to bring them to their feet, encouraged them with silent, tender sounds.

Beside her, in the scrubs, stood the father of the small family, an impressive roebuck,

and tensely looked in the direction from which the sound approached. He was alert, too, now that his kids had finally seen the light of the world, but he had already scented the presence of elves. Thus he hesitated to alarm his wife. Elves had, so he had learned, a pleasant aura, and they would harm neither him nor his fawns. Perhaps there was no reason at all to scare them away from the place of their birth. 

Now they became visible, horses with their riders, coming along in quite a hurry. The roebuck looked up, scenting, and he startled. Still he hesitated for a second, then his warning cry came, and the doe was on her feet instantly, her exhaustion forgotten, and pushed her fawns up with her nose. They suddenly stood, silently whining, but they stood, and followed their mother that had already vanished into the bushes. The roebuck followed, tensely looking back from time to time.

The elves approaching had no pleasant aura. A human observer would have fled them, too, had he seen Elrond and his warriors trying to detect Legolas´ tracks this morning.

They all wore grim, serious faces, and Elrond's was the most scaring one among them, although he didn't really show his wrath. It showed hidden, though, in the way he reigned his horse from time to time, impatiently, in the way the corner of his mouth twisted; or in the way his eyes looked to the floor not searchingly, but demanding.

Disaster seemed to follow them like a threatening cloud; and the animals of the wood fled them like every other common being. Only the trees of Rivendell remained unimpressed, and the wind rustled in their leaves.

**II. **

And angry also the wood elves were, which had heard the trampling of hoofs even before it was heard by the little roe family. Although they couldn't really know who was actually approaching, they suspected it and didn't hesitate to follow Mardin's sign to hide themselves in between the lowest branches of the trees around them. They were ten, but even for the keen eyes of an elf they´d become invisible, once they were hidden. So they expected the Rivendell elves.  

**III. **

Elrond startled, being abruptly disturbed in his dark thoughts when a cold voice over him said: „One step further, and my first arrow will hit you!" 

He reigned his horse with a violent gesture, and the other elves followed his example. The animal pranced on the spot, for it was not used to such a treatment, and it scented the danger, which made it additionally restless. 

Anxious the Rivendell elves were, too, although they didn't show it. With sharp looks they eyed their surroundings, tried to detect their invisible enemy, but to no avail. The voice threatening their leader was disembodied, coming from somewhere out of the trees. 

No one dared to reach for an arrow. The risk for Elrond – and for them all – was too big.

„Now you dare to threaten us even in our own lands." Elrond said to the trees, and his voice was cold from anger barely concealed. Instantly he´d recognised Mardin's voice. „What's the meaning of this masquerade? Give way before I loose my patience!" 

The other elves, still not able to detect their enemies, looked alarmed at their leader, and one of the trackers, which had held his horse near to that of the elven king, made a calming gesture in Elrond's direction.  

„Wood elves!" Elrond hissed without moving his lips. „About ten of them. They hide in the trees around us. Some of them have their bows ready." 

He didn't seem anxious, but still very, very angry. 

„I advise you to choose your words more carefully." the disembodied voice resounded again. „It seems to me that it is you at the wrong end of the bows. What is more, you do not have the slightest right to command us, neither here nor elsewhere."

„Since when is it the way of wood elves to hide in the trees and ambush other elves, threatening them?" Elrond bellowed back. „Show yourselves, and I will speak to you further." 

For a moment nothing happened. Fifteen pale, proud faces stared at the trees surrounding them, while Elrond was fretting and fuming. He from all the Rivendell elves was the only one not to fear for his life at the moment. 

Then the branches above them separated, and a handful of wood elves emerged. They wore grim faces, and they still held their bows, arrows ready, although they weren't raised.

„I'm sorry having bothered you." The old warrior, whom Elrond had got to know as Mardin, said. „I beg your pardon." He slightly bowed. The sound of his voice was irritating; it was difficult to say if his polite words were in earnest or just mockery. 

His next words made it clear, though. „But how could we guess that a few Rivendell elves – together with their mightiest leader – would decide to make a little morning ride today? We suspected us pursued – by orcs or similar ugly creatures."

His words were followed by angry whispers from the Rivendell elves, which Mardin choose to ignore. „Now, with our misunderstanding sorted out, we'll accompany you." His words sounded playfully. The look in his eyes was not.

Elrond sighed and forcefully controlled his anger, looked thoughtfully down on his horse's neck for a few seconds. The wood elves still held their bows, and still they looked far from peaceful. And they were free elves – he couldn't forbid them to follow him and his men. He could try, though, risking to turn a tense, but controllable situation into a quickly escalating one… with all of his elves right in the line of fire! 

It was in his hands to calm the wood elves – for angry they were, or they wouldn't have threatened their elvish brothers – or to inflame it. If he did the latter, he risked the life of elves - a decision he didn't even consider to take. 

He sighed again, and all his blind fury was suddenly wiped out. Mardin – or whoever had led Thranduil's elves here - was brighter than he had actually given him credit for. From some non point source they must have heard the rumours about the murder at the two guards – which wasn't actually surprising, since it was most likely the leading topic of conversation in Rivendell – and they pulled together this crime with the disappearance of their leader, Legolas, just like he and Saruman had done before. Instantly they had set out to find their lost king, even faster than the Rivendell-elves, only to get disturbed by them later. They laboriously had put together their knowledge, and now they had been confronted with the fact that this knowledge had been shared by other elves, which didn't think it necessary to share it with them. No wonder they were angry. Elrond most likely would have felt the same in their position.

„You know as well as I do that I cannot order you to stay back." he said. „And it seems to me that we're pursuing the same aim." Mardin nodded his head approvingly; he even smiled for a split second, then dropped his bow.

„We'll not be considerate of you, though, since we want to find Legolas Greenleaf fast. Unlike you we´re mounted..."

Mardin's smile deepened. „What are you waiting for, Lord Elrond?" he said. „Let us take care of the rest." The arrogance had returned in his words, but Elrond didn't doubt that he was in earnest, and that the wood elves actually would keep up their pace, even on foot.

Behind him the Rivendell elves again hissed in anger. Elrond sighed. Then he set spurs to his horse, causing the animal to make a startled, abrupt lunge, thus forcing Mardin to save himself swiftly from it's swinging hoofs with a jump aside. Mardin´s smile became distorted, but he took the challenge. 

As fast as Elrond and the Rivendell elves rode – there were always the dark, gloomy shadows of the wood elves behind them, beside them, in front of them. They lay heavy on Elrond's soul. ****

**IV. **

Suddenly, from one second to another, he was awake, wide awake, his nerves all on edge, and still he didn't know neither where he was nor what had woken him. He felt like waking from one of those silent, crushing nightmares, in which you find yourself in your bed, sitting upright, your heart painfully in your mouth, covered in sweat, but with no memory of the dream which had caused your current bad condition. The memory is vivid, though, and you don't want to go to sleep again after such a dream. 

It was fear which caused Legolas to come to his feet, and before he actually knew what he was doing his arms already had reached for his bow, the arrows, his knives, any weapon, in fluent movements, and when he finally came back to his senses, realising there was no weapon left to draw, he had already skidded on a wet stone; and only with a most ungracious kneefall he avoided a repeated fall into the green waters of the Loudwater. 

For a moment he remained in his kneeling posture, gasping catching his breath, desperately trying to force his aching muscles to move, to get up. His senses were overwhelmed by a merciless exhaustion, and only when he remembered the cold fear that had woken him from his slumber, his mind eventually functioned again.

His aching members protested painfully when he came to his feet. Legolas raised his head, listening. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. 

The fear which had disturbed his sleep had it's roots not only in a nightmare. It was a real one, for now he could hear it. 

The sound of iron hoofs on a forest floor, the trampling of boots. The clank of metal. Someone would be here, and soon. 

He supressed a curse, while he frantically, agitated looked around, but neither the cold, unperturbed waters of the Loudwater mirrored a possibility of escape, nor did it the vast, rocky river bank, provided that he managed to reach it. Most likely he wouldn´t even have enough time to try and reach it... 

And on his stone he waited, determined to at least sell dear his life, and waited for the things fate had in store for him.

That was how they found him, Elrond and the wood elves, a lonely, dishevelled, wet, and torn figure, stranded on a river island, it´s face marked with horror, a horror which filled Elrond with grim satisfaction and nursed the grudge in his heart. 

„You should have thought about this earlier, Legolas Greenleaf, before you betrayed us all." he thought. "You knew we would find you, sooner or later. From whom you hope to find mercy now? Do not expect it from my side..."

Mardin passed him by, so close that his horse unwillingly threw back his head, thus forcing the elven king to attend to it, calming it, and Mardin used these few moments of Elrond´s inattention to place himself in front of Legolas. Straddling he stood, solid as a rock, and there was happiness in his eyes when he anxiously searched Legolas´ face, and his crouched body, for a signs of injuries. 

He found none, but a smile only lit his features when Legolas put a heavy hand on his shoulder and gave him a small, tired – oh, so tired – smile, thus assuring him that he was unhurt. An expression of utter relief was on Legolas´ face too, for a moment, when Mardin covered his hand with his own, armed one. 

It escaped Elrond's notice, though, because Mardin blocked his sight on Legolas. Even if he had seen it – it would not have been enough to chase the coldness in his heart. 

His signs for the two Rivendell elves beside him, though, were not overlooked. 

Mardin frowned violently when suddenly two horses, literally being in deep water, emerged beside him, and hands started reaching for Legolas, dragging him up on one of the horses, more roughly than it was entirely necessary.

Legolas – was the prince really unhurt? – let it happen apathetically, as if he didn't notice the rough handling. Perhaps he really didn't... 

His blue lips, the lids that already were closing again over his normally so vivid blue eyes, the grey colour to his skin – all these signs were very meaningful. Thranduil's last surviving son was freezing and exhausted and in desperate need of rest and warmth.

That was the reason, the only reason, why Mardin – and the other wood elves, on his sign- allowed the Rivendell elves to abscond with the prince like he was a war prize, without even turning once to the wood elves quickly falling back. 

Mardin's frown deepened. Elrond and his elves rode back in a almost insane speed  – well, Legolas had been found, he was secure now, soon being tended – but still why did he have those feelings of threat, why did they pursue him, determined, like a vicious dog, who obstinately sticks to his bone? 

Mardin clenched his teeth and ignored the cold of the river water on his skin, and on the place Legolas' hand had rested, a few seconds before. 

„Back!" he commanded. „As fast as you can." He didn't need to urge the other wood elves. They all ran silently. Anxious. Fast. But still to slow. 

**V. **

All of sudden he felt cold, terribly cold, and a shivering had seized his body which he couldn't supress any longer. He didn't realise what kind of a look he offered: His clothes torn, soaked and filthy, his hairs in wild disorder, his left arm encrusted with dried blood, his face ashen, lips blue. There were dark shadows under his eyes; making them look enormous. 

So he stood on Elrond's terrace, his heart full of things he had to tell the elven king, finally having reached his target, but still he found it difficult to find the right words to explain himself. 

The urge to cough was in his throat, far too strong to be ignored, the desire for sleep overwhelming, and he knew he was not far from sinking to the floor unceremoniously, in front of Lord Elrond, and instantly falling into an exhausted sleep…

Only a small rest of his dignity held him from doing so. But he must have swayed, for suddenly two of the elves behind Elrond stepped forth, at his side, and gripped his upper arms, thus effectively holding him upright. 

Their grip was too tightly to be pleasant, and Legolas exhaled sharply when acute pain from his bruised shoulder passed through him. He tried to move his right arm, but the grip of the elf holding him did not loosen. 

The pain was not bad though. It chased the dark veils subsiding onto his consciousness, and his will to comply his duty grew stronger. He moistened his suddenly dry lips. 

„Lord Elrond..." he started to speak, but his voice sounded weak in his own ears, high and thin, and he ceased confused when Elrond made a step in his direction, approached him, closing in so near on him, that he, surely not small himself, had to look up to the elven king. 

Elrond stood proudly erected, and his look was not warmer than the cool night air surrounding them. His eyes gleamed in a strange light. The grip around Legolas´ upper arms tightened. He just wished he could get rid of the elves supporting him, but he didn't have the strength to try and free himself, and again a shuddering went through his body. Caused by the chill of the night, or by the cold Elrond radiated, he couldn´t tell. 

„He already knows..." said a small voice in the back of his mind. „He already knows about Saruman´s treacheries. No wonder he's angry, and desperate." „You already know?" he tried to speak up again, and Elrond's lips became a thin line. 

„Yes, Legolas Greenleaf, I already know." he said in a voice which reminded of distant thunder. „I already know." 

„Good." Legolas said, dizzy from sudden relief, and he involuntary smiled. For the first time in what seemed to be eternities he felt sudden, intensive joy, and the warmth of hopes unexpectedly fulfilled filled his heart.

Elrond still stared at him, his face ashen, and Legolas finally found the words he'd searched in vain before. „Saruman!" he gushed forth. „The white wizard... he has lost his mind!" 

„Legolas Greenleaf..." Elrond gravely said, as if Legolas hadn't spoken. His face was an expressionless mask, but his hands, moving restlessly, betrayed him. „I arrest you because of treason." 

„...lost his mind. He did pursue us..." 

Legolas' voice faltered when Elrond's words finally reached his consciousness, but still his mind refused to accept their meaning. His arms fell. 

Elrond still seemed calm, very calm, when he continued: „And because of several murderous attacks. On two of our guardians at the north wall."

„No!" Legolas whispered, all the words he´d wanted to say dying on his lips. Still he didn`t really understand, but a cold hand began seizing his heart. 

The hope in him died, leaving nothing but a bitter taste on his tongue. 

„And because of the murder on Elwyne Thornbush." 

„No!" Legolas repeated, in a small voice, very quiet, very desperate. „No! It's not true. Please! Please, tell me it´s not true…"

Only now he understood the animosity Elrond radiated, and all the other elves. He looked around agitated, like a cornered animal, and saw an ocean of hostile faces. 

Out of the corner of his eyes he caught a glimpse at Aragorn´s face, in which disbelief and abhorrence visibly struggled. „Tell me that Elwyne..." a sob suffocated his voice. „...is not dead..."

Aragorn avoided his eyes. 

„No!" Legolas screamed, his face distorted in pain. „No!" Darkness began creeping into his mind. „No." Tears fell from his eyes, unnoticed. 

If it hadn't been for the two elves at his side, gripping him tightly, imperturbable, he would have fallen to his knees. 

„No." The agony in his voice would even have irritated the grimly resolute Elrond, if it hadn't been for a silent laugh, devoid of every gaiety, from behind them. Saruman had emerged from the corner he´d been hidden thus far. He smirked. 

„A brilliant display of grief, my young prince." he said. „It´s a pity we are not that easily fooled. Is your desperation based on delayed ruefulness; or only on the fact that you've been caught by poisoning your elder brother?" 

Legolas stared at him, and the darkness in his mind grew stronger. In front of him there stood the man which was to blame for all his – their - suffering, and hate sprawled in him, to a dark, suffocating power, stronger and mightier even than the hate he had felt against the orcs in those first days after the destruction of the Mirkwood. 

The hate conferred him unexpected strength. 

Elrond stood too tightly, much too tightly before him... and Legolas was fast, even for an elf. 

With a sudden jerk he freed his right arm from the grip of one of his guardians to grab the knife in Elrond's belt. He managed to get a hold on it; even though hate and tears blurred his vision. Even Elrond stepped back from the look in his eyes.

The second guardian still hadn't loosened his grip. Legolas used his weapon to lacerate his underarm, and so overwhelming was his desire to kill the hatred wizard, that even his cry of pain did not cause pricks of conscience to have hurt someone from his own race. 

With a gasp he finally tore himself free; and advanced against Saruman. 

Several bows had already been raised, pointed right at him, and even Aragorn's hand rested for a moment on the hilt of his sword. Elrond had drawn his remaining dagger. 

With a fast show of hands Saruman held back the Rivendell elves. His eyes rested on Legolas, only on Legolas. „Showing your true face, elf?" he calmly said. 

Legolas hissed something and threw his knife. Although his hand had been sure, although he'd aimed precisely, Saruman avoided the weapon with surprising ease.

Legolas saw it, and hate constricted his throat. He trembled with hate. Saruman gave him another mocking glance. 

„You've lost, elf." he cruelly said, and only Legolas really understood what he meant.

 Then Saruman raised his hand again, and a terrible stroke hit Legolas, violently throwing him backwards. His head forcefully crashed against the wall**. **

Half unconscious he sank to the floor. Only the terrible pain in his mouth kept back the darkness threatening to overcome him. 

Blood rushed out of his nose, and his mouth was quickly filling up with it. He´d bitten his tongue. Deeply, deeply he inhaled, trying not to choke on it, and he turned himself on his stomach to spit it out more easily. In his confused mind there was not a single clear thought left, except the one that he would suffocate on his on blood if he weren't careful. Breathe. Breathe, carefully. Spit the blood. Do not swallow it…

Like distant bee-buzzing the voices of the others surrounded him, and when they dragged him to his feet, turned his hands behind his back, his breathing became confused instead of his precautions, and blood trickled down his throat, left him coughing and choking. The urge to vomit clenched his stomach, and his tongue was already so swollen it additionally blocked his respiration. 

All the clearer his mind suddenly worked. „You've lost, elf!" Saruman´s sneering voice repeated in his head. „You've lost, elf!" and Legolas finally understood that the wizard was right. He'd lost, lost completely. 

While he had fought his way back to Rivendell through the rows of the orcs, Saruman had not stayed idle, and Elrond had not been the only one which had been in need of a warning... 

Elwyne was dead... doubtlessly killed by Saruman, which had shifted the blame on him. Elwyne dead... Again tears welled up in his eyes, and only the last remaining piece of dignity held him from starting to cry in front of his tormentors. Lost... 

With his hate-inspired attack on Saruman he'd played right into the hands of the wizard one last time, by vividly demonstrating his anger, his hate, as well as his readyness to kill. 

It had been the anger, and the hate, of a victim, which had just suffered too much injustice, but nobody would believe him, even when he still would have had the time to explain himself, or someone had been willing to listen to him. His tongue was so swollen that he could utter nothing more than unarticulated stammering, and now they already brought him away. 

Legolas didn't resist. The certainty about his devastating defeat was so crushing that he was barely able to walk. Lost. Lost. Lost... 

**VI. **

The blood from his mouth and nose had dried to a sticky mask on his face long ago, as well as the noticeable bloodstains around him. 

Legolas didn't care. He sat, legs tucked up, with his back against the cell wall; and stared into nothingness. 

At first, when they had brought him into one of the few prison cells existing in Rivendell, and had pushed him in without a further word, closing the door, tears had still burned in his eyes. He´d wept for Elwyne, dying because of his errors, although it had been Saruman who had actually killed him.

Even harder to endure was the thought of the catastrophe Saruman would bring over Rivendell soon, and the certitude that he, Legolas, had had it in his hands to avoid it. He had vastly underestimated Saruman, and overestimated himself... 

He now paid a cruel price for it, paid with the life of his brother, most likely with the life of the little hobbit out in the woods, and the lives of many elves. His eyes were dry, but unshed tears still burned in his throat.

The thought of his failure became more tormenting with every minute passing by. He knew nothing whatsoever about what was happening in the outside world. His fantasy, though, made a special effort to envision it in the most horrible colors; and he saw battles, attacking orcs, elves slain or taken, Rivendell, bloodstained and destroyed, and in the background there were always these seas of flames merciless devouring the Mirkwood, his home. 

At the beginning he managed to keep these images at bay, in the moments he still believed that they would come to listen to him, and he had figured out the words he would need to persuade Elrond from his innocence; and from Saruman's betrayal, Elrond, Gandalf, Aragorn, or whoever would enter his cell. But time elapsed – he could only guess how fast – and no one came.

The cell in which they had brought him was dark. A miserable strip of half-light fell through a very small window at the ceiling, but it accentuated the darkness more than it chased it. The cell was small. It's stones laid themselves on the soul of it's occupant, and they reminded Legolas of something he couldn't really specify. 

Hour after hour he just sat there, an occasional shudder shaking his body, torn between hope and desperation, the latter getting the upper hand more and more. 

The moment came when he knew he had to shake off his gloomy thoughts; or he simply would loose his mind. So he decided to observe the half-shady circle of light in front of him, coming from the small window, or the dried blood on the stone floor, and while he sat there in his semiconscious state, he suddenly knew what the cell had reminded him of: A tomb.

**VII. **

Already quite a while Saruman looked through the small window leading to the prison cell in which they had brought Thranduil´s son. He didn't move yet, had become as absorbed in the sight which was offered him like the elf he watched had sunk into desperation. He still hadn´t noticed the approaching of the wizard. 

„What fragile creatures these elves are." Saruman thought. „They know to give eloquent speeches, they're clever, and knowingly, more than humans ever will be, and terrific warriors – and still their grace, their haughtiness, and their braveness are all quickly lost if they´re deprived from light." 

He mechanically smiled. „And dark times lie ahead of them, in the truest sense of the word! All, all of them, even Galadriel and Elrond, will lick my boots, as soon as I have gained the three rings!"

Then his gaze as well as his thoughts wandered back to the imprisoned elf. „It is strange...," he thought, „... what an important part of my plans this Greenleaf has become. As a last obstacle he still stands between me and his father's ring, has thus far managed to spoil my plans concerning it – but then again it will be him who will play Elrond's ring in my hands… He and his wood elves."

Now the crouched, miserable figure in the corner of the cell raised his head, and for an instant Saruman looked right into Legolas´ burning eyes. He smiled. Greenleaf had finally noticed his presence. So his sharp senses weren't completely dulled yet. 

Furthermore, he'd seen the fear in the eyes of his opposite. „Well." he rejoiced. „You do not fear enough yet." And he entered the dungeon.

Legolas, having heard his coming, had risen. He was a horrific sight: The eyes blood-shot, shrunken, dried blood still covering his face and clothes, his hair dishevelled hanging over his shoulders. His clothes were torn and filthy, thus contrasting sharply to the clean white of the bandages that covered the worst of his wounds. 

The Rivendell elves had tended to his injuries. "They just couldn´t help it…" Saruman thought angrily, but the memory of Legolas, trying frantically to explain himself while choking on his own blood, with no one listening to him, filled him with grim satisfaction.

There was a blue tinge to Legolas´ face, accented from the pale light of the dungeon, and for a fleeting, irrational moment Saruman got the impression that the elf was already fading, physically as well as mentally, an impression that was intensified when he addressed Greenleaf. 

„You know why I'm here.," he said. „Give it to me freely, or I'll take it forcefully. You're not in a position to put up any resistance." He stepped forth, and Legolas instinctively gave way, until he hit the wall of his cell with a thud, wide-eyed, and he didn't meet Saruman's stare.

„The ring." Saruman repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, but with a malice that sent a shiver down his victim´s spine. His words seemed to echo from the small room. „Give it to me. Or I'll go and get it." The elf retreated further. He seemed to sink down even more.

„He's already broken!" This thought rushed into Saruman's mind. His smile became abjectly. „That was faster than I thought!"

For a fleeting moment he suspected the elf to act, trying to deceive him with his submissiveness; only to attack him in a moment of carelessness. But then he rejected the thought. Legolas radiated desperation, not agressiveness.

He advanced another step, reached out with one hand and touched Legolas' head, laterally, at his left temple. His breathing was heavy. The greed for the first elven ring again became uncontrollably strong, made him forget everything else. Then he loosened his magic power into the elf.

Legolas gave a small sound of pain, writhing under Saruman's grip, but now the wizard also used his other hand, forcing his victim to remain motionless, with strength far beyond anything Legolas ever had witnessed. For a few seconds they both stood frozen, without moving, with Saruman tilting his head, as if he were listening intently.

Then he released Legolas with a deep sigh and withdraw himself. „You do not have the ring.," he said, and it was a statement, not a question. „It is one of Gandalf's little friends, the curious one, who has it." 

The elf turned his head, looked straight into his eyes, unblinkingly. „No." he whispered, and his voice was small and hoarse, as if not used for a long time. „No! I've thrown it away, while hurrying back to Rivendell. The hobbit does not have it."

Saruman watched him with an amused smile. „Your lies are futile." he retorted. „I've read your thoughts. There was nothing in your mind you could have hidden from me. 

The hobbit has the ring – but he'll not enjoy it for long. My orcs will find him quickly – and kill him instantly, if they are in a merciful mood. Then again it is more likely that they use him for their sport, before they kill him."

  
„They wont!" The elf shot back, passionately. His breath came jerkily. 

„Ah, there's still more fighting spirit left in him than I gave him credit for." Saruman thought. „Not for himself, but for his friends." 

Aloud he said: „We'll see, elf. We'll see." 

He turned to leave, while making a small sign with his right hand. The dim light from the ceiling, the only light source of the elf´s dungeon, expired. Darkness spread.

„We'll see." Saruman repeated, giving one last glance to the prisoner. Then he left.

**VIII. **

„He's innocent!" Aragorn said, passionately, heated, and his face mirrored the amplitude of his emotions: Fury, sorrow, anger, anxiety. And uncertainty. Arwen, which could read it like an open book, more than he probably suspected, felt her heart ache with pity.

Aragorn had abandoned his nervous pacing and now directed his gaze on her. His eyes searched her face. „He's innocent!" he repeated, but his voice had lost it's vehemence, and there were doubts in it, too. 

He was a soul in hell, that much was clear to her, and she felt a wave of anger against no one in particular when she thought about how little peace her lover had had, the last days and month. As little as her father. He was worried sick as well, although he didn't show it like Aragorn. 

„I do not know Legolas Greenleaf." she softly said and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. „But if you say he is innocent, I will believe you." Her deep blue eyes looked at him with so much confidence that Aragorn suddenly found it difficult to breathe regularly. Arwen always had this effect on him.

„Thank you." He said and forced a smile on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes, and he knew it wouldn't fool her for a second. 

„I cannot endure this inactivity any longer!" he exclaimed, and the hunted expression was back in his eyes. „The wood elves will be deaf for every further word the moment they hear that Legolas is under suspect of having killed his brother. Here, no one believes in his innocence but you and me – but they will believe in it, and fiercely."

„You fear they will turn against my father – and against us all." Arwen voiced the sum of all his worries, and her melodious voice was a strange contrast to her terrible words. 

Aragorn suddenly looked distant, as if he was thinking about something.

Arwen uneasily moved her shoulders, and again she read his thoughts without effort. Aragorn had stopped to puzzle over this long ago. 

„You'll heal Elwyne." she said. „If he regains consciousness and claims Legolas' innocence, then father will have to release him. He even will apologize for his errors. The wood elves will be satisfied, for they do not bear a grudge against us. They´re only desperate." 

"Exactly." Aragorn answered, and his eyes shone in excitement. „And I´ve heard one of the healers say that they need the "Poison-Lady-Weed" in order to save Elwyne. Their supplies have been used to the last leaf only to stabilise him… If we manage to get the weed…but…" 

"But?" Arwen asked, arching one eyebrow, looking very much like her father for a moment.

 "The herb is rarely found." he answered, his spirits sinking. "And usually it grows in summer, with only the primary leaves present in spring." He gave her a worried glance. "Furthermore there could be orcs in the woods of Rivendell as well as elsewhere by now." 

"I´ll get the horses." she said, thus nipping the imminent discussion about female participation in the bud. "It will raise less suspicion if I ask for them. Await me at the main gate." Aragorn supressed a sigh. 

"Just like father if he doesn´t have the heart to refuse one of my requests." Arwen thought and hid a smile. Then became serious again.

„I just hope you're worth the trouble, Legolas Greenleaf.," she thought. „If you break Aragorn's heart, do not count on my pity."

**IX. **

„Ah, by the way..." Saruman said slowly, casually. „Do not wait any longer for the return of your leader." 

He turned to leave, only to be stopped abruptly by Mardin having caught his right sleeve quite unceremoniously. "What do you mean by that?" the old warhorse angrily asked. "Stop talking in riddles, for heaven´s sake!"

"Am I to hear this from an elf?" Saruman thought, narrowing his eyes. The temporary leader of the wood elves, an old, evil looking elf, seemed not to have much respect for him, Saruman, for some reason. Most likely because he was so much older…

Well, it didn´t really matter, for this elf still had to play his role in Saruman´s game, and soon enough he would be punished cruelly for his insolence. There was no reason to teach this pawn a lesson, thus making him loose his usefulness too early…

"You do not know yet?" he continued, well played incredibility in his voice as well as in his face, and the worried expression, which could be detected on the face of his opposite for a split second, bore no small satisfaction for the wizard. 

"That will teach you respect, damned elf!" he thought, but aloud he said:

„Lord Elrond has ordered to incarcerate your prince, over there, in Rivendell. He´s accusing him of the murder of his brother." 

A whisper went through the crowd of the gathered wood elves, like an icy wind through the leaves of autumn trees, and Saruman suddenly saw himself confronted with a sea of dark, proud faces turned towards him. The eyes of the elves burned like coals. 

"You didn´t know." Saruman finished and let his voice falter, as if having realised the mistake he just made, then he cleared his throat and continued more strongly: "Well, you would have known soon enough. Even Elrond would not dare to order Legolas Greeleaf´s incarceration without noticing you."

The arrogant elf in front of him staggered back, as if he had caught a fist right into his stomach. Saruman saw it with no small satisfaction, which he carefully hid behind a neutral expression. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw faces distorted in anger, fists risen, and tightly gripped weapons. 

With an arrogant gesture Saruman tied up his coat. 

"The murder of a king is punished with dungeon, or death occasionally, when the times are hard. As far as I know Elrond hasn't given a judgement yet. He's still hesitating. To condemn an elf – an elf even of royal blood – no one would take such a decision lightly. But then again there is much anger, sorrow, and anxiety brewing in him. The bale which has afflicted the Mirkwood is still fresh in his mind, and he greatly fears that it will reach Rivendell, too."

Saruman just couldn't help to carefully observe Mardin's face, and that of other elves nearby, to see their reaction on his little, well planed speech. 

What he saw pleased him. „Let's hope that the bale has not yet foiled Elrond's discernment."

 „I hope it for him." Mardin filled in, cold, but with a vehemence that even scared Saruman for a moment. „Or he will soon regret his false judgement." More fists were pushed into the air.

To be continued…

To Daylight:

After getting your review I just couldn´t wipe out the silly grin on my face for the rest of the day; just like the one appearing when I first saw "The Two Towers". I still find it difficult to come back to reality… But anyway, thanks a lot for your praise as well as your suggestions to allow anonymous reviews. I surely will. 

Did you read that, all of you out there? Anonymous reviews possible now! Pleease…. 

Anyway, I wish you a pleasant rest of your Christmas holidays and I hope you´ve finished your exams with ease.

(Or shouldn´t I have mentioned them at this time? J)

To Elise:

I almost had a bad conscience getting your review – after your vivid description of the state you were in while writing it I got the impression that bed rest would have done you better than sitting in front of the computer. But luckily you didn´t do it – lucky for me, for I got not only one, but two nice reviews.

It´s true, I was a bit disappointed I didn´t get more reviews – it´s not the writing itself ( I cannot help writing, it seems to me. How else could I survive until "The return of the king?!?) but the fact that I write in English, which is, as I wrote before, not my mother tongue. My stories are usually written in german, and so it´s important to me to know if they´re read at all, or else I can spare me the trouble of translating them. What is more important, I need to know if they´re making sense, but at least to you they seem to do. I´ll heed to your suggestion though, and I think I finally find enough time to read your story, too. 

Ps. I`m on someone´s favourite list. I think I´m getting megalomaniac!!!

Ps 2: You´re right: Brandy´s a very precious medicine against a cold!!!


	9. One way streets

ONE WAY STREETS

"Here I stand

All alone

Have my mind turned to stone

Have my heart filled up with ice

To avoid it's breaking twice

Thanks to you 

My dear old friend

But you can't help

This is the end

Of a tale 

That wasn't right

I wont have no sleep tonight

In my heart in my soul

I really hate to pay this toll

Should be strong

Young and bold

But the only thing I feel is pain"

(…)

"A tale that wasn't right" by "Helloween" 

**Author's note: **Sentences in italic – Saruman's thoughts, not spoken aloud.

** I. **

 "The wood elves!" they had whispered to each other, and they had exchanged conspiratorial glances and knowing smiles. "The wood elves!" These three words had included their own world of magic; and they had coloured the cheeks of the elvish kids from Rivendell. 

Yes, in the beginning not only Sam had been interested in the wood elves, their looks, their customs, and their songs. The most adventurous kids too, every now and then, had run into the forest to catch a look at them; for they occasionally were mentioned in the tales of their parents or grandparents, and always had been depicted as sufficiently strange and uncivilised to be considered to be bold; or even heroic, at least in the eyes of the enraptured listeners.

.

Of course the kids knew about the tragedy that had stricken the elves of their admiration, and they acted shy, running away the moment they felt being discovered, thus often causing a rare smile on the faces of the wood elves, in all the grief that surrounded them.

Now no kids ran into the forest anymore. Some of them had been ordered not to, by their parents, which increasingly feared and distrusted their sylvan relatives. The rest of the kids had been driven away by the wood elves themselves, their grim faces, equally grim words and harsh gestures. 

No, the wood elves did not tolerate any observer, not even children, not after Saruman had told them what had happened – or probably would happen – to their prince. 

Their anger hung like storm clouds over the wood, bone-crushing and electrifying at the same time, and Mardin knew how to use this anger when he finally held his speech, a speech, which was neither well-considered nor wise, which would never be retold in tales or even history books, but a speech which non the less – or maybe even for this reason - managed to inflame the hearts of the wood elves. 

Mardin was in no way a skilled speaker, even clumsy for an elf with words, but his words were coming from an upright, valiant, and sincere heart, and the desperation and anger of his listeners had made sure that the seeds of them fell on fertile ground. Mardin´s words were nothing but coarse steel; but heard with desperation, they became swords, bows and spears, and a summon to arms, mightier and more haunting than even war horns would have been.

They had lit fires, in the midst of their provisory accommodations, which simultaneously accentuated light and shadows on their faces, and they had posted guardians, which, in the trees around them, carefully observed their surroundings.

Rivendell was no place of shelter anymore, and their friendship, their trust, even their gratefulness towards their saviours, had grown thin.

The wood elves would take their matters in their own hands once again, like they had always done, and this meant that they would be watchful; and protective of their own kind; once more.

Nothing, and no one, not even a Rivendell elf would approach them without them noticing, and allowing it.

Mardin's gaze flew over the martial crowd gathered at the fires around him, the warriors, leaning on their newly cut bows, their quivers tightly refilled with arrows; the elvish women, armed with bows as well, only slightly lighter than the ones of the men; all, all of them were there, and their sight filled Mardin's heart with pride. 

Initially they had been sitting around the fires to warm themselves, but now they stood, one after another, and turned their attention to him, their unofficial leader after Legolas incarceration, and waited for him to speak up, as he had announced he would do. 

"Wood elves." Mardin said. "Elves of the Mirkwood. Folk of Thranduil." The embers of the fires seemed to leap over in the eyes of the listening elves. Some of them bared their shining teeth; others hid their eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by grief. 

"There are times in which life itself seems to progress slowly; and the days of those witnessing them are filled with happiness, joy and hopes. Our people, too, have lived to see such times. A proud, upright people, leading a free life in the Mirkwood, a people with it´s own laws and customs we were, depending on no one and friend to everyone which was a friend to us. Yes, untouched from the elapse of time we lived, and the songs we made these days were all merry and joyful. 

But then, surprising like the first snowfall in the mountains; incidents are starting to follow hot on each other's heels; and time itself seems to condense; and the tales of the people living trough it are all too sudden full of grief, sorrow, agony and crushed hopes; and all their songs become sad.

Well, I do not have to tell you that we witness such times, these days, and that evil has come over us. When the orcs destroyed our homes and killed our brothers, they also killed every happy song on our lips, and so throughout, that we only can sing of loss and grief now, not even of revenge. At least up to now, for I do not doubt that many of you will carry the name "orc-hunter" in the future."

Some of the elves hissed angrily. It was a scaring sound, filled with hatred beyond imagination. Their pale faces with the high cheekbones seemed like carved from ivory, cold and distant. "The orcs have taken our homes; and almost wiped out our people. They'll pay for it." Some of the elves moved their lips to his words: "They´ll pay."

"Yet exactly in these times, in which all a people is living for seems lost; in which no stars shine at night and thoughts of hope are futile and foolish, the fate of a people is decided. Will it break and fade, defeated by storms that do not spare any people? Or will it face up to the storm, bending under the adverse winds, but holding out, with all it´s remaining strength; to finally stand once again, like a stormshattered oak, more upright, stronger than ever before?" 

Mardin´s listeners stood like hypnotised. Some of them nodded their heads approvingly, others gripped their bows tightly, their faces still unreadable. 

"I know what will be the fate of our people, and you know it, too."

They had thrown even more wood into the fire. The wood elves´ faces burned.

  
"But if you think that our ordeal, the injustice we have suffered, is over now, you´re wrong. Another attack on us has taken place, much more silently; and subtle; than the one of the orcs, but still an attack." 

This was finally enough to arouse anxious whispers among his auditors. 

"Yes, there has been an attack on us. An attack that is more treacherous than everything you witnessed before, for someone we regarded as an ally has accomplished it.

You know what I´m speaking of. You´ve heard it yourself: How the heir of Thranduil, our new king Elwyne, exhaled his life, poisoned under the very hands of Elrond. You´ve heard whom they have arrested, accusing him of this terrible crime:  his brother and heir, Legolas. He might be awaiting the death sentence the very moment we´re talking here…

In one point I agree with Lord Elrond though…" he almost spat the "Lord", "…To kill out of eagerness for power is a terrible crime." A malicious smile was suddenly on his lips.

 "Only that the wrong one has been accused of it." His words came now faster, more urgent, almost adjuratory.

"I say it is Lord Elrond himself who is to blame for all the terrible things that have happened in his house. "The last save haven", so they call it. Safe for their kind perhaps, but not for wood elves. 

Have not our kings been lured to destruction in exactly this save haven? Aren´t we leaderless now, so he can finally claim the lordship over our people – and our lands and treasures? I do not doubt that he will do so…" Mardin´s voice trailed of, his gaze became unfocussed. For a few moments he did not say anything further. A nervous silence fell. 

Then Mardin whispered:

"There are some dark, and evil tunes among the charming, enchanting melodies of Rivendell. We have to be careful now, very careful, for if we aren´t, the melody of the wood elves will fade away to never be heard again." It was obvious that he was talking to himself more than to his auditors.

"What shall we do then?" an elderly warrior exclaimed.

He was about the same age as Mardin, and if he didn´t really appreciate Mardin´s increasingly allegorical words, he did appreciate their meaning, though.

"What we always have done, in our own way. We confront Elrond and claim our king. With our bows risen. We didn´t start this false song, but we will have our own melody in it, and a mighty one."

"And if Elrond refuses to let Legolas Greenleaf go?" the rather pragmatical warrior asked further. "What if he risks an open fight for his willingness to reign us?"

"Then he´ll get what he wishes!" some of the wood elves exclaimed, having breathlessly followed the exchange of words.

„Yes, he´ll get what he wants." Mardin acknowledged in a hoarse voice. 

"And when Lord Elrond does not even let you go after you have confronted him?"

The old warrior spoke up for one last time.

 "Then you know what you have to do." Mardin answered, shortly. "You know what you have to do then, even without me. Fight to the last man." 

"Fight to the last man." Some of the wood elves repeated, and it sounded like a promise, dark and threatening, and sad at the same time.

** II. **

The air up here was pleasant, cool, fresh; gently touched his cheeks and lightly passed trough his hair. The balustrade under his grip felt cool as well, and for a moment Elrond was tempted to touch the beautifully carved wood with his hot forehead, as if it´s coolness would promise relief, as if it´s touch would bring some order into the chaos of thoughts in his head.

Elrond involuntarily smiled. It was a bitter smile. Anxiety had become a fast companion to him, ever since he first had taken a glimpse at the red sky over the burning Mirkwood, accompanying his day and haunting his dreams. It was strong in him, so strong that he needed all his strength to keep himself together, and to still wear his mask of cool, calm superiority. It would need a miracle to bring him relief.

Still there were decisions to be made – and he would have to make them alone. For alone he was – increasingly alone. For a moment he thought of Saruman, the mysterious, the superior, the wise; and of the fact that he´d become strange to him. There were these days at which his counsellor – most likely the counsellor of all free people in Middle-Earth – even was weird to him….

Sometimes, when Elrond had directed his look unexpectedly on the wizard, Saruman had not been able to advert his piercing glance fast enough, and Elrond uneasily awoke to the realisation that Saruman – for some reason or another – observed him, or even stalked him, at his every turn.

Maybe this was just the wizard´s way to show his concern for the elven king, which was involved in serious matters, but still there could be something else behind it, if one considered the fact that Saruman had mentally withdrawn from everyone.

He only did what crossed his mind, ate, drank and slept according to his own rhythms, and thus seemed to live in a world of his own, where the matters of others had no meaning to him.

Elrond knew something was tearing the wizard apart, from the inside, and occasionally, if Saruman believed himself unobserved, this something also appeared in his eyes…

With Gandalf it was no different. The grey pilgrim had buried himself in his, Elrond´s, library and only snatched a hurried meal if he was gently forced to do so, drank some wine, or ate some lembas or some fruits.

In his eyes there was a haunted expression, like it could be seen in the eyes of doomed men, something Elrond had never noticed before on Gandalf, and if the wizard was interrupted in his work, he would react either nervous or angry. It was obvious that he was desperately searching for something, but he would not willingly speak about it.

Elrond knew him long enough to not press the matter. No, at the moment even Gandalf was not good for a sound advice, but strangely enough Elrond felt, now that he wasn´t exposed to the influence of the two wizards, almost relieved, as if the cool night air had finally worked the wonder to calm him, at least a little bit.

The look over Rivendell from the top of his house was like always: Breathtaking and haunting at the same time. Elrond couldn´t exactly remember how many times he´d stood here before, in the small bay at the top of his residence, overlooking one of the last elvish realms. It was his harbour, his sanctuary, and the place where he sorted out his thoughts; and found new strength when the guidance of the Rivendell elves pressed down on him; and never had he left this place without new confidence, or at least some consolation.

Except him, only Arwen had come here occasionally. The thought of her stroke another painful chord in Elrond. Arwen, the evening star. For a moment his eyes searched the night sky. There it was, the evening star, a pale diamond at the dark horizon, bigger and more beautiful than any other star; but strangely enough he did not offer solace to Elrond.

Neither did his harbour.

Having finally awoken to this realisation, Elrond let go of the balustrade as if he had been burned. His heart was in his mouth, and for an irrational moment he felt surrounded, and hunted down, from some unknown evil forces greedily reaching out for him.

His breathing was laboured. No, it weren´t evil forces which had finally caught up with him, but sadness, a paralysing, consuming, and destroying sadness, the only force that could overthrow an elf, by suffocating his very essence; a sadness which most likely sprang from the unspoken knowledge that the time of the elves here was over, and that they had been caught up by their own, personal mortality.

To calm himself he overlooked Rivendell, once more; but all he could discover were a few, spartanic lights, and a paralysing silence seemed to lay over the valley. It was a vision, and Elrond knew it; a vision of the future of Middle-Earth without elves, with a Rivendell abandoned, and in ruins; a vision of a cold, and strange, but still turning world. Elrond involuntarily shuddered. The night air was more than cool. It was cold. Elrond gathered up his cloak and his remaining strength. He wasn't here to abandon himself to vague fears, sentimentalities and sorrow. He had climbed up here to finally come to a decision. 

His thoughts wandered back to the events of the last few days. Instantly the acute pain behind his forehead intensified. Elrond chose to ignore it. 

„What am I going to do?" he said to the nightly sky, which was listening patiently; and indifferent „The orcs are gathering their forces. The signs are unmistakeable. Perhaps the wood elves are right indeed, and we should wipe them out before they become even more numerous." He smiled at the thought. Never had he even considered agreeing with the wood elves in this matter...

His smile expired, as fast as it had come. The wood elves... and Legolas Greenleaf. The orcs were a minor problem; compared to them. 

Suddenly his mind was filled with the image of the young, royal elf, face covered in blood, eyes wide opened, being taken away by his guardians, having been found guilty of the murder of his brother. Convicted and hunted down… and he, Elrond, was now forced to sit in judgement on exactly this elf, to finally pass a sentence over him, a sentence from which he knew that, no matter what he decided, would be taken ungratefully. 

To condemn Greenleaf to livelong incarceration most likely would push the wood elves to insurrection. To let him go away with his crime – Saruman as well as his intellect clearly warned him from doing so. And Legolas Greenleaf himself? Would he call his warriors to their arms, the second he was released – by claiming that his brother had been killed here, under the very eyes and hands of Lord Elrond? 

Well, the wood elves weren't that numerous – some 100, 200 warriors. But Elrond surely knew to judge the strength of those warriors correctly. They were ferocious and battle-scarred fighters, and their skills with the bows were legendary, would match, if not exceed, the ones of the Rivendell elves. If they would decide to free Thranduil´s youngest son – who would be there to stop them? Would his soldiers be prepared to spring to arms against their own kind from the Mirkwood? Or would they even be all too eager to do so, incited by the arrogance of the wood elves? How could things have gone so far that bloodshed among elves seemed inescapable? 

Elrond´s heart constricted painfully. More images were filling his mind. Images of fighting elves, in battle right in the heart of Rivendell; thus turning the pure, untouched lands into bloodstained, unholy grounds, on which one elf after another expired his immortal life…

The visions assailing him were so vivid his breath caught in his throat. Elrond staggered back, as if being hit by some invisible fist, and he buried his face in his hands; if only for a moment. Yes, things had gone far; for the Rivendell as well as for the wood elves; but not that far yet; and visions were still visions, with no more reality to them as were in the dreams of a feverish child. He wouldn´t allow them to come true. 

Elrond tautened. His long, slender fingers gripped the balustrade so tightly his knuckles discoloured to white.

There was a key to all his problems, and this key answered to the name of Legolas Greenleaf. Over him, his people, and his father´s ring all the tangled cords of the last events seemed to cross. Greenleaf incarcerated…

The image of Aragorn, vehemently protesting Legolas´ innocence, his face ashen, slipped into his mind, as well as the one of Greenleaf´s horrified face when he was confronted with the results of his crime.  Hadn´t Gandalf frowned, when he heard Saruman accusing the young wood elf king to be the murderer of his own brother?

All this images intermingled with the image of Saruman; explaining him; face motionless and cold, that Legolas did not carry his father´s ring with him anymore, that he most likely had lost it by his fall into the river; and that there would be no magic in this world which could retrieve it… So there was no need to interrogate Greenleaf further after all… 

Saruman´s opinion against the conviction of Aragorn, and Gandalf…

All of a sudden Elrond felt doubts arise. Could an elf be so depraved, as Saruman had stated, to kill his own brother and betray his people; just to own one of the elven rings? And if so: Why then had Greenleaf, the blood of king Elwyne still fresh on his hands, simply „lost" the ring, when it was more precious to him than his own kind? 

Doubts began gnawing on him like the time on old buildings. It was as if his strong will had finally been released from reins that another will, a strange one, had imposed on him, and this released will would allow him to take the matters of the Rivendell elves – and the wood elves – in his hands once again; as he had always done; and to turn the tide. His intellect and wisdom finally started to hold their ground against his anger, whom´s origin Elrond had never really understood. 

He had to hear Greenleaf; for he´d never done this before. The realisation came like a cold shower. Greenleaf was the most important pawn in the game they all had to play, and only his release would – Elrond knew it instinctively – lessen the wood elves anger. After all they played for high stakes: For the life of elves. Wasn´t it irrelevant if the wood elves were lead by a white or a black king, as long as they lived? One unpunished bloodshed was still better than many…  

Without really noticing it, like a sleepwalker, Elrond had started to return to his house. He knew now how he would proceed further, but he also knew that his decision to free Greenleaf -at any price- would be far from popular. Elrond didn´t really care. 

Now, that his ultimate decision had been made, he all of a sudden felt strangely relieved, and equally tired. He´d stuck to it, and face the consequences. Even if he was in this alone. Alone. His eyes once more searched the evening star at the sky stretched over him. In vain. It was hidden behind a thin layer of clouds, which had build up without him noticing it. They looked like rain.

But he noticed the small fires that had been lit in the camp of the wood elves instead. The thin pillars of smoke were clearly visible. Like the knells of future doom a flock of black, screaming birds arose from near the wood elves´ camp this very moment, their silhouettes clearly visible against the fires. So the wood elves were, quite in contrary to the Rivendell elves, seemingly wide awake.

The reason for their gathering wasn´t difficult to figure out and smelled of trouble. Elrond accelerated his steps. Perhaps it would be best to talk to Legolas right now, even though the night was already advanced and fading.Or should he summon his guards, so they could keep a careful eye on the wood elves, instead of watching the city walls against all evil from outside? Maybe he was just too tired to shake off the gloomy thoughts that slowly but surely wore him down? Would a good night´s rest melt away most of his problems; like the spring sun did with all winter ice? He still thought about this when he reentered his home. The warmth in there welcomed him like an embrace.

** III. **

There was something else awaiting him when he returned to his house. A subtle, yet overwhelming presence, an almost physical attendance in his head; from which Elrond had believed to be rid of; and which, however, immediately started to shake the very foundations of his determination, like the wind that rages against unwillingly, defiant, yet bending trees.

"What are you doing at this late hour?" a silky, disembodied voice asked from beside him, and against his will Elrond spun round, almost startled. "Saruman." he said, half delighted and half annoyed, trying to hide his primary dismay. 

"I've watched the fires of the wood elves." he then said, and if this would have been a sufficient explanation, he tried to pass the wizard. Saruman's hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-tracks.

"I've seen the fires you've mentioned. But I've also seen you, watching out over Rivendell for hours." Saruman said, and in his voice there was warmth; something Elrond had missed for a long time. "I fear evil things are being planned at the fires of the wood elves... But primary I came to talk to you; or to offer you my council, if you ask for it." 

Elrond nodded. His gaze was still unfocussed, distant. He'd wished for an outstretched, and helping hand only minutes ago, but now, when he finally got his wish, he felt strangely uncomfortable, even though Saruman, one of the mightiest men in whole Middle-Earth, offered the hand.

His throat suddenly was dry, and his headaches – why did he suffer from headaches all the times lately? – had returned full force. But still he couldn't put his discomfort into words...

Saruman, eyes full of concern – or was there something else in his eyes as well? -, had watched him patiently, and he did deserve an answer. So Elrond said rather woodily: "I thank you for your offer, Saruman. You know very well what's haunting me. You're right, evil things are being discussed at the fires of the wood elves. I cannot get rid of the thought that we've made a terrible mistake by arresting Greenleaf."

"He has killed his king, and brother." Saruman said coolly. "For a mere ring. I do not consider it as a mistake to disarm him. Perhaps Greenleaf knows more about the power of the elven rings than it is entirely good for him."

_So you start to defy my control. You've been quite a match from the beginning, half elf, and your thoughts are difficult to direct. But your awakening will come too late, elven king! The seed of mistrust and hate, sown into the hearts of all elves dwelling here, is already full-grown and mature, so mature there will be no way back, neither for you nor for Greenleaf's people. Your ring, and everything he stands for, will finally be mine..._

"What do you actually know about the elven rings?" the thought passed Elrond like an icy shower, and he mechanically backed away from Saruman´s glistening eyes, which had fixed him all the time; like a bird of prey might did before falling down on his prey.

"He may be guilty of this crime or not." Elrond retorted. There was more than a touch of desperation in his voice. "But you know that the wood elves are preparing for war. They´ll claim their king, for they will believe him innocent."

"A handful of uncivilised warriors out of the woods! You´ll easily repel them with your well-trained, experienced soldiers." 

The contempt in Saruman´s voice woke something akin to nausea in Elrond´s stomach.

"Those uncivilised warriors are, doubtlessly, the most skilled archers in Middle-Earth." he said, coldly. "Of course we can defeat them with ease. But this would claim elvish blood, being spilt in Rivendell itself…" his voice faltered. "It is not you asking it."

Oh yes, elvish blood will be spilt, Elrond. Streams of blood and more than you can imagine in your darkest nightmares. My orcs will bathe in elvish blood, and Rivendell will be a cursed place, when I´ve finished with you. Even this witch Galadriel in Lorien will wonder how fast her people will share your fate, elven king!

"You may be right." Elrond said and fought for words like a dreamer for awakening. "But as long as there is the slightest chance of avoiding a desperate act from the wood elves, I will take it. Everything else must lead to their destruction."

"What is your plan, then?" Saruman asked, somewhat warily.

 "I´ll talk to Greenleaf, for one last time. Perhaps he´ll bring the wood elves to reason – if I offer him release. Greenleaf´s crime will not be avenged. I'll only ask him – and his people, if they wish so – to leave Rivendell.  May they will judge over Greenleaf later."

"That´s not what I would advise you." Saruman said, trying to conceal his growing anger about Elrond´s distant, even cool attitude. "I fear the wood elves would be even more dangerous, reunited with their king, as they are right now.

For your own safety, Lord Elrond, you should not forget that Greenleaf – unlike the other elves from his people – does know his way around the palace reasonably well. You´ve seen what this prince is capable of; when he tried to kill his brother, or me. What if he also plans a murderous attempt on you? Or decides to incite his elves against you, by simply blaming you for king Elwyne´s death?" 

He sighed. A thousand little wrinkles were around his eyes.

"No, I would not advise you to let him go, at least for the moment. Wait until tomorrow, find some rest, and then try to talk some sense into the wood elves instead. Perhaps daylight will soften their minds, and they´ll be not as eager to kill themselves as they seem in the dark hours of the night. Ask also Gandalf for his opinion, if you wish…"  

You´ll not to that, elf, by no means! Taking the only possibility to still spoil my plans... I wanted to let you keep your ring, until I´ve crushed you and your people, but if you insist on talking with this miserable wood elf instantly, I might have to change my plans and take the ring from you right here, right now… even if I have all elves of Rivendell breathing down my neck afterwards!

The cold glistening vanished from Elrond's eyes. "Gandalf…" he repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, I´ll ask Gandalf for his opinion as well as for his help, tomorrow."

_So you trust Gandalf more than you trust me. Very well, consult with him, then. It will not help you in he end._

"But I will let Greenleaf go, if the circumstances require it."

"You might do whatever you think is appropriate." Saruman said smoothly, but it was clearly visible in his cold stare that Elrond´s intentions did not please him, not at all. It had become increasingly difficult for him to disguise himself lately. So he now turned away from the elven king without a further word. Elrond watched him leave. His eyebrows were thoughtfully shortened.

So have it your way then, Elrond, and the blame for everything that is to come now will be on you. I would have spared him, this poor creature in its cell, for his life as well as his death is of little meaning to me. But you aren't to talk to him, and the little elven prince isn't to be released, either. By planning this, you, and you alone, have just condemned him to death. I think poison would be a nice option. Yes, the same poison that has almost killed his brother, into the water you insist bringing your prisoners – and Greenleaf will finally be released from his agony. I think it will look pretty pathetic – the furies of regret must have deranged his mind, until he took his own poison, the calming, the redemptive one, to silence the accusing voices in his head. No, Lord Elrond, I don't think you'll talk to Greenleaf tomorrow.

To be continued…

**Author´s note part 2:**

It took me quite some time to write the next chapter to my story. Do not blame me for this, but the muses; they didn´t really favour me with their graces the last few days. And I´ve to get used to the fact that I´m not a student anymore. My spare time has been drastically reduced. Poor me… But as long as there are a few reviews occasionally feeding my letterbox; I surely will continue writing… 

**To Hypy: **I tried my best to; but… (see author´s note part 2) The next chapter though, should be posted earlier, since it´s halfway written. The original chapter in german had become just too long, even for my measures, so I decided to make two english ones of it.

**To Flame: **(What sort of a scaring name is this?!?) Author´s slapping her forehead: Forgot to mention that Saruman is indeed, as you have suggested, an advisor, sharing his wisdom with other people if he´s asked to do so. He´s well-known and respected, and no one suspects him

to have evil intentions, not even Gandalf or Elrond. I tried to point this out in Elrond´s monologue...

**To SpaceVixenX: **It was rather sad for me to kill Thranduil as well, for he´s one of my favourite characters. But in favour of the story you have to bring some sacrifices… Just in case you didn´t notice: There wasn´t a single word about Sam in this story! The next chapter, though, will be dedicated to him, and Arwen, and Aragorn, and some Orcs…

**To Legolas Fan: **As long you aren´t too lazy to leave a review...

**To Daylight: **I had some nice holidays, thanks for asking, but I´m in desperate need of more…

**To Legilmalith: **Hehehe! This was just what I wanted to hear concerning my English! Now I do not need to worry about my translation abilities anymore. My humble thanks to you! Besides, I would rather prefer to speak Irish-Gaelic than french. The latter is spoken by so many people it misses the romantic touch that I connect with the Irish-Gaelic…

**To Sarah Lynne: **Well, I hope you´re not a case for the funny farm yet; since I didn´t update for about a month. J (But I´m going to be soon; if I don´t get more spare time to spend with my little hobbies) And Galadriel: I would love to give her a place in my story, but the problem with her is… she can read minds! She would have learned about Saruman´s evil intentions the moment she would have met him; thus "spoiling" the plotline. If Saruman´s in trouble putting a spell on Elrond to keep him compliant; in what kind of trouble would he run with Galadriel? __

**To everyone reading this: **I got 13 reviews (with more compliments that are actually good for me: Being posted on some favourite lists and stuff like that… as I said before, I think I´m getting too big for my boots) but still there are 13 reviews… Please send me more, for 13 definitely is an unlucky number... 


	10. Bright intervalls

BRIGHT INTERVALLS

**I. **

Only someone watching very closely would have detected it; the small, crouched figure hiding in the mighty branches of the old beech in which it had taken refuge, almost invisible in his grey and green clothes it was wearing- Sam, the little hobbit, still held out patiently where Legolas had left him.

And like the forest around him changed it's nature in the course of the day, Sam's mood did. 

Oh yes, in the beginning, after Legolas had left; leaving behind nothing but a pitying look and a short pressure from his right hand on the hobbit's shoulder – and the ring -when all the excitement, the mortal fear; and the horror about Saruman's attack and the pursuit through the orcs had evaporated, he hadn't lacked courage; and determination. Hadn't it been him, Samwise, the gardener from the shire, who had saved the life of an elf and had stood up to the mighty Saruman? 

And the little hobbit had arranged his clothes; had searched for a more comfortable – and better hidden – crotch, mentally preparing himself for a long, long waiting time. 

Occasionally he had taken the elf's ring out of his pocket, to closely examine him; only to carefully put it back an instant later. He had to admit it to himself: The ring was somewhat eerie to him, really eerie, and he felt it would be best to keep it safe for the time being. Yes, he would wait until Legolas Greenleaf would return, with the help he'd promised he would summon, and until then the ring would be safe with him.

Like the time confidence flew Sam's heart. When dusk came creeping in, it's cold, clammy fingers seizing the young hobbit, the forest surrounding him again changing it's face, turning into a dark and threatening place, Sam crouched himself more and more in his crotch. The excitement of the fight and their dramatic flight had long ago faded, the adrenalin was no longer running through his veins; and reality finally started catching up with him.

It was cold out here, if one sat there without moving, and his stomach told Sam with an occasional snarling that he had no food with him – a fact which unfortunately most likely would not change for a long time. The sounds of the night, so different from everything Sam had heard before, started to frighten the hobbit. 

Had he ever witnessed a night as dark as this one before? And couldn't he hear, if he caught his breath, a silent creeping out of nowhere, over there, from under the trees? Did not the shadows around him summarise themselves to eerie figures; their menace growing in the same degree as did Sam's fear?

Sam was a very pragmatic hobbit  – on the one side. 

On the other side he was full of mischief, as the old gaffer would put it when he alluded to Sam's passionate affectation for myths, stories, legends and the figures from which they told. Sam's fantasy, in this respect, was measureless, the worlds in his head and heart bigger than Middle-Earth itself; but still his hobbit-nature eventually came through, and then Sam's thoughts were filled with images of nice, comfortable hobbit-holes, food; Rosie, and gardens, in which he loved the trees most of all. 

And this was good; or else Sam would hardly have survived the night in his uncomfortable crotch. The hobbit clearly lacked fantasy concerning the dark forces. He didn't know of the snares of evil and the thousands ways it found to enmesh others, to infatuate and finally destroy them. Fortunately he did not, for otherwise he would have started to ask himself where the black creatures pursuing them had gone – and if they weren't able, in one way or another, to find their traces. 

Whether Legolas would reach Rivendell or not – he didn't waste one single thought on it. His confidence in the elf – in all elves – was blind and overwhelming.

So he sat in his crotch and wishfully thought of merrily burning fires, and cooked sausages and large quantities of beer, occasionally shuddering from the cold or wincing, when he thought he'd heard something.

Sam didn't belong here, in this situation where his brave heart had brought him, for his mind still was that of a child, he himself a lamb among wolves, but this would change soon enough. 

The very moment Sam had prevented Saruman's attack on the elf prince, a stone had been loosened which would cause an avalanche; an avalanche of events which would forge the still coarse steel, deeply hidden in Sam's being and even unbeknown to himself, to a sword which would not have to fear any danger, and challenge.

Yes, many would consider Sam as easy prey in this world full of predators, but they were wrong, for Sam possessed the qualities of all true heroes: To accept everything life might dealt, patiently, bending, but never breaking, to then, in time, with the anger of the good against evil, strike back; without hate, without bitterness, but with the warm confidence that everything you did made this world a better place.

**II. **

The predators came close  that night. A pack of plundering orcs, striding through Rivendell's forests in greater numbers than ever before, had started hunting. What they actually hunted they didn't know, for they still were provided with sufficient food. But their temporary leader Saruman, whom they obeyed in expectation of rich prey, had commanded them to remain hidden, and this disturbed their black hearts. Oh, how the wizard had incited them with his words, of how he would feed them elf flesh, and provide them with objects for sports, as many as their hearts desired, but their anticipation, their greed to kill had been dampened little by little, when he had ordered them to gather themselves near Rivendell, but nothing more, and this for three endless days in a row now. Their hate of the elves made the waiting intolerable. Incapable to occupy themselves with something else than hunting, feeding, fighting and killing the orcs became unsettled, and some of them started loaming the woods. Saruman hadn't informed them of his plans, and in their narrowness they didn't realise they better should have gone unnoticed. 

Perhaps they simply were all too aware of their strength, and thus  didn't fear a discovery, as little as they knew to fear Saruman.

Sam, fortunately, knew nothing of the danger he was in. In spite of his fears and the cold he had fallen into a heavy, haunted sleep, from which no roaming orc could have awoken him.

** III. **

Sweat was trickling over his brow, and burning in his eyes; and for a moment Aragorn reigned his horse to wipe his forehead with the back of his  hand, blinking; until his vision was not blurred anymore.

Arwen had directed her horse at his side. „Slowly, my love." She said in elvish, for she had seen the exhaustion around his eyes. 

Aragorn shrugged his shoulders as an answer and sighed. He knew what he looked like – hairs dishevelled, sweaty from the swift ride, his eyes reddish from the efforts of reading Legolas' traces – and Arwen beside him still looked like the fresh morning. 

The ride had lent her cheeks a delicate red, and a maple leaf had gotten stuck in her hair. She was beautiful like the first flowers in spring, and Aragorn realised another time, with almost brutal clarity, that he loved her with painful intensity – and still exposed her, at this very moment, to unnecessary dangers.

„What are you really searching, Aragorn?" Arwen continued. „The plants you need to heal Elwyne, or the old traces of your unfortunate friend?"

Aragorn sighed again. „You knew all the time that I was following Legolas' trail?" 

She allowed herself a small smile, and her voice was full of tenderness when she said: "I know this look on your face. It's the one of a hound over a scent." Then she became more serious, repeated her question: "What are you hoping to find here?" 

Aragorn turned himself so he could see her face. "I've racked my brain over Legolas' trail." he admitted. „After Elrond has told me about his pursuit through the wood and the Rivendell elves. They have followed his trail from the place where the killing took place to the north, and the imprints of his horse in the soft forest floor were easily enough to be found. But then they came to a point where another trail was crossing the one of the mounted Legolas, and it was the one of someone walking. Walking fast. And occasionally also orc's traces could be found...

The second trail, leading to the south, was fresher, and Elrond instinctively decided that it was more promising than the older one. Well, his success proved him right, and the elven king has haunted down his game, down at the river."

Arwen nodded. She knew the story, but she didn't want to interrupt him. 

"I'm still puzzling over the fact that Legolas first rode to the north, to then leave his horse behind, in the wild, to fight back his way to Rivendell, walking. It's just not making sense! I thought, if we follow his old track, we might come across something that explains Legolas' strange behaviour. I mean, otherwise than Saruman does it… "

"Oh Aragorn." Arwen thought, but she didn't voice it. "Your loyalty will once break your heart. And you still haven't answered my question. I fear you can't."

Aloud she said, while urging on her horse: "Maybe we'll find the poisonous lady on the way." 

They didn't found anything. They were found instead.

** IV. **

At the first signs of dawn Sam awoke from his troubled sleep, in which he had fallen despite of all his fears, and he cursed his aching back; for hobbits were not made to sleep on trees, after all. He yawned, blinked into the red sky, and found to his own surprise – and no small satisfaction – that the fears of the previous night had evaporated.  

Hobbits were not that different from men in this aspect - surveyed in the light of the day, their sorrows always were of minor importance than they had been, in the night, in the hour of the wolves. 

If there had been something in Sam's stomach additionally, he would have felt almost cheerful. 

But there wasn't; and so he sat, not scared, but increasingly hungry, in his crotch, fingered the ring in his pocket occasionally, and waited. 

Although he usually was a patient hobbit, he soon was fed up to the teeth with his forced idleness, and still the nightmarish events of the night, although he quite successfully had managed to dismiss them, were still lurking in his subconscious mind...

So the hours of the early day were passing by, then the morning, the afternoon, and when the shadows already started to get longer, he could not stand it any longer on his safe tree. He'd done everything to disperse himself: Recited every poem he once had learned, pictured Rosies face in his mind, in detail, yes, he even had started to write a poem himself, in which he sang about his adventures. It was more the adventures of an elf, though, for Sam was much too modest to ascribe himself too big a role in a song, but still he was very content with his work.

But now thoughts of food began to sneak themselves into his head, in increasingly numbers, and after he had pictured out, in vivid colours, what he would polish off first after his recovery (which he took for granted in full daylight) and only songs of food had been emerging in his memory, he was finally done for.

He climbed down his tree, inspired from one thought only: To find something edible. In the beginning he was quite successful, and found some nuts that had been left from the last year, and some wood-garlic; and other herbs, that seemed rather eatable in his hunger.

But also to a hungry hobbit the forest around him had something conspicuous to it, and Sam noticed it quite at the beginning of his little excursion, although he didn´t want to acknowledge it: Something was wrong here. 

It was noticeable if one was listening. Except the humming of thousands of insects, and the whispering of the leaves, and the padding of Sam´s feet on the forest floor, nothing could be heard. Not a single sound. It was as if the wood was sleeping, as if there was no life in him bigger than a butterfly. 

Yes, one could not even here the whistled melody of one single bird, where normally at least a chaffinch warbled his monotonous song every fifth meter.

Sam stopped, lost in thoughts, and looked around with renewed mistrust. Did the forest really sleep, or had it been deserted because every life had fled him? His safe tree, the place at which the elf had promised to meet him again, had vanished from sight long ago…

Sam´s feet started to move on their own accord, when the fears of the night welled up in his heart again, but before he could think of returning to his shelter tree, he heard the breaking of a twig. Instantly Sam was paralysed with fear. 

And if as to prove that the noise didn´t have it´s roots in the hobbit´s overwrought nerves, it was repeated, followed by a scaring grunting. The hairs at Sam´s neck raised. He knew what this meant. His pursuers of the previous night had – almost – caught up with him.

** V. **

It was a simple branch which snapped under the food of an orc too eager for blood, but still indefinitely more, for the noise of it´s breaking was heard by a ranger. 

Aragorn turned his head, abruptly, all his senses alert, an almost scenting look on his face, and he saw the orcs the same moment they discovered their intended victims. Five, no, seven, eight of these ugly, horrible creatures stood, weapons at hand, eyes glistening in sheer bloodlust, only  a few meters away from him. 

One of them hissed something in his evil language, which did not only hurt elvish ears. Then he howled, a triumphant sound, which sent a shiver down Aragorn´s spine, despite his iron nerves. He didn´t need to look at Arwen – the silent, metallic sound which rang out when she drew her sword said all that was needed to be said. 

Instead his gaze was attracted almost magically from one of the orcs. The one which had calmly started to bend his crossbow. And he instinctively knew: Should he not be able to kill this dreadful warrior before he had his damned, far reaching weapon ready, either he or Arwen would be doomed to die with certainty.

Aragorn was an experienced warrior. He knew about the strange mixture of anxiety and aggression which awoke in a soldier immediately before a battle, and he knew that a good warrior – a warrior which did survive – forcefully had to bane every thought of physical injury and death, to avoid a trembling of hands, or a deadly panic. 

Aragorn, as a born warrior, had never found this difficult, until today; for he had to admit to himself that not the usual anticipation of the fight filled his heart, but something else instead. 

He pricked his horse, with his teeth clenched, and while he overrode the first orc and pierced the throat of another one with his sword, his eyes glued on the orcs with the crossbow all the while, there was this dull apprehension of defeat, of bitter loss in his chest, which he just couldn´t displace.

Then the orc with the crossbow had his weapon ready, as he had anticipated it, before he even had had the slightest chance to reach the ugly creature. Like in close up the ranger saw the iron tip of the arrow, pointed right at his chest, without swaying, and the bitter taste of defeat was now in his mouth as well, as if he already knew that this encounter, useless as it was, would not only claim his, but also the life of the most precious he owned in this world; and that there would be no this cruel faith, neither with his life nor his dying. 

The lids of the orc fluttered. Now, now he would release the arrow which would pull Aragorn down from his horse, tearing his chest, killing him… 

The arrow indeed was released, the chord of the crossbow sang, but instead of imbedding itself in Aragorn´s chest it hit the chest of the ranger´s horse, at the left side, thus wounding it gravely,, but not deadly yet. 

Already for the second time in just two days Sam, a little, harm- and guileless hobbit, had played a crucial role in a fight that would become the fight for Rivendell in the end, equipped with nothing but a brave heart and a stone, which he´d catapulted, blindly and without aiming, in the direction of the orc which stood within his reach. The orc with the crossbow. 

The stone itself fell without effect, two, three meters away from it´s aim, but the noise of it´s fall was enough to critically divert the orc, making him miss his aim. 

It was the last miss of his life. Although Aragorn´s horse, almost paralysed, it´s left lung fast filling up with blood, collapsed with a painful snore, the ranger had won enough time to slide from the back of the wounded animal; and to attack his enemy, sword arisen. He met few, and belated, resistance, and it took him only a few strikes with his sword until the orc stertorously lay at his feet. Life had not even deserted the fallen enemy when Aragorn, breathing heavily, the excitement of the fight still burning  in his veins, searchingly looked around for Arwen. Arwen. Everything else was meaningless to him…

** VI. **

Oh, how they had underestimated their assumedly easy prey, a human, an elf – and a female elf, that is – against eight orcs! Their lust for blood had, like their anticipation, clouded their senses, so they had been not anxious enough to slay their victims in an ambush, as they usually did, thus avoiding any significant resistance. They had attacked openly,almost careless, their faces distorted to grinning grimaces. They didn´t get a chance to learn from their mistakes.

Two of them fell through Arwen´s sword even before they had raised their weapons properly, and the others shrank back from the elf´s horse that was acting like mad.

The animal, elvish trained, hated the orcs with vehemence, and their presence was enough to push it to a bellicosity that exceeded even the one of the orcs themselves. 

Eyes rolling wildly, prick-eared it reared up, kicked, pranced and neighed sharply – even Arwen, an exceptionally gifted horsewoman, was forced to mobilise all her horsemanship to remain on the back of her animal, and it was impossible for her – at least for the moment - to still use her deadly sword. 

It was not necessary, though. The horse did the killing for her. One of the orcs died with a shattered skull, another fell with a shrill cry of pain and a broken thigh to the floor, where he, half hobbling, half creeping, tried to creep out of the reach of the horse´s flying hooves. His jagged sword lay forgotten beside him – at least for the moment – until Arwen´s horse staggered to the left, exactly into the direction

of the wounded orc. And this one – although almost mad from pain – knew to take a chance when he saw one. With a hateful noise he gripped the hilt of his sword and hacked against the exposed stomach of the raging animal. The cry of pain of the badly wounded horse mingled with Arwen´s cry of rage; when the horse slowly, like in slow-motion, fell to it´s knees, then, with a soft snort, to his side, thus burying both the orc and his sword.

Arwen skilfully skidded from the horse´s back, face distorted in pain over it´s loss, an expression which immediately was replaced by fiery anger, when she was confronted with still another orc. 

She griped the hilt of her blade more tightly and hissed something in elvish. Hate was flashing from her eyes. As gently Arwen usually was, she still was of elvish blood; which meant that she´d been brought up with the hate of orcs, as well as she was capable of killing fast, skilful, and merciless if necessary. 

Even the orc, with his constricted intellect, seemed to be aware of her cold hate, for he hesitated a split second before attacking her with his dagger; as if he knew already that this attack would claim his life. And he was right. He even managed to tear Arwen´s clothes at the height of her hips, with an uncontrolled strike, something she acknowledged with another angry hiss, but then he also fell, like his companions, pierced by an elvish sword.

Arwen took a deep breath, placidly pulling her sword out of the orc´s body. Then she gave a quick, anxious look into Aragorn´s direction. She allowed herself a relieved, shining smile when she saw how her lover just slew their last enemy; and she went to  bend herself over the little creature she´d spotted behind the ranger.

It looked up to her, eyes wide open, his face marked with astonishment and admiration. She smiled again.

** VII. **

She knelt beside a small creature which had been introduced to Aragorn as a hobbit, and Aragorn had reached her in less than a second, gripping her shoulder almost roughly in his concern. "Are you hurt?" His voice was hoarse, all anxiety of the world resounding in it, and she covered his hand with her own, squeezed it and smiled at him tenderly. "I´m not hurt." She answered in elvish. "And the little hobbit isn´t, neither." 

Aragorn again squeezed her shoulder, almost boyishly in his relief, and sheathed his bloodied sword; before he finally directed his gaze on the hobbit standing in front of him, pale, dirty, exhausted, but still with his jaws firmly set, returning his questioning look.

"Did Legolas send you?" Sam asked, eagerly. Relief was written all over his round face. "Where is he, then? It was fortunate you arrived this very moment, or…" he didn´t finish his sentence, nor the thought, and shuddered. Arwen moved a little closer to him, thus blocking his sight on the orcs´ bodies.

 "Luck was also on our side." Aragorn dryly replied, and the hobbit knew exactly what he meant, for he averted his eyes and blushed. Then looked up again, searching Aragorn´s face, and he repeated his previous question, in his high, clear voice: "But where is Legolas? Are we going back to Rivendell now?" 

Arwen and Aragorn exchanged a short glance. Then Aragorn stepped back, while Arwen, her voice almost singing, asked: "Why did you expect Legolas to meet you here? How did you come here, anyway?" 

Her sympathy seemed to open Sam´s floodgates, for now the little hobbit started to give an account of his adventures, sputtering, gushing forth one event after another, but as the faces of his listeners became increasingly dark he knew that his story did make some sense to them, and that they did believe him.

 "He said he would come back to get me." He finally said and looked down on his toes. "And now you´re here." 

Arwen instinctively reached for Aragorn´s hand, and the ranger, cold to the heart, searched her face. His dismay was mirrored in her eyes. "We must go back." she finally said, in a small voice, her left hand gripping her throat, as if something suddenly threatened to choke her, as if it was difficult for her to breathe. "May the graces of the valar protect my father and his house until we´re back."

** VIII. **

There it was again, this bitterness, the paralysing presentiment that they would be too late, despite of all their efforts, and Aragorn felt like crying out in frustration and desperation that they didn´t get ahead faster. Only the presence of Arwen and the hobbit held him from doing so. It would not help them to advance faster, after anyway. 

No, nothing in this world could change the fact that they were still very, very far from Rivendell, and that the horse he led by it´s reigns, foundered heavily. They had sat the hobbit on the horse which had carried Legolas and Sam during their flight from Saruman, but the poor beast was in a bad shape still; and it would not last much longer, that much was clearly visible, and it would soon force them to slow down their pace even more, or the hobbit would not be able to keep up with them. 

 "And even if you WERE faster…" the bitterness, poisoning his thoughts, jeered. "Saruman has probably already prepared his next move. Maybe it´s long too late to stop him… Maybe…"

He sighed and stole a glance at Arwen, running at his side. She didn´t notice. Her eyes were directed straight ahead, her face almost translucent pale, and her detached hair framed it like dark snakes. Her mouth was opened, and from time to time she breathed out with a small sob, a sound which constricted Aragorn´s heart with pity. The fear for her father – and her people - must lacerate her heart… 

Oh, how he longed to take her into his arms, to cradle her like a frightened child, to murmur soothing words into her head of hairs, although she, every inch a proud elf, wouldn´t allow this for long. And they were running out of time…

Aragorn ran, while his pulse was hammering in his ears; and he gave a quick glance back to ensure that the hobbit still sat where he ought to be. 

The little fellow got pretty shaken, but he held himself bravely; and Aragorn´s respect for the halfling´s tenacity grew.

On Sam´s face there was an odd mixture of sheer determination and the strange self absorbed expression of a dreamer which didn´t know what was happening to him, or whether he was still sleeping or wide awake.

Aragorn spat out grimly. He almost believed himself in a dream, too, a bad one, in one of these nightly afflictions in whom one ran and ran, to no use, only to be hunted down by some lurking evil in the end. 

He cursed silently when a groping twig of a barberry tore the skin of his right cheek, thus bringing him back to reality rather ruggedly. 

But their situation was real, only too real, and now he, Aragorn, had just one duty in this world: To bring back Arwen and the hobbit back to the –relative- safety of Rivendell; and to warn Elrond. 

And although he didn´t know it, his thoughts still mirrored those of his friend Legolas, from the previous day, and in his heart there was the same wild mixture of conflicting feelings, fear and despair, but also hope and determination; the determination to give his best, no matter what would happen. Legolas´ mantra became his just as it died away in the elven prince´s heart.. "You have to warn Elrond…"

** IX. **

The darkness finally claimed him, after it had slowly suffocated every flicker of vitality that had been left in him. He still had fought it, in desperate, even heroic efforts, by using his hatred of Saruman – and the thought of his duty against Elrond – to rouse his fading strength once more.

"You have to warn Elrond". Yes, it still controlled his thinking, his  old mantra from his desperate flight to the northern woods of Rivendell; and it had enabled him to grope his way to the door of his prison in the dark; to pound against it until his fists hurt; and until he again felt the nauseous sweet taste of his own blood in his mouth. 

Then desperation had seized him again; and he lost all hopes that someone would come finally; if only to order quiet. He lowered himself to the floor where he stood, now there was no bright spot in the cell which offered at least some small comfort, and he embraced himself, as if he would be able to warm, or to comfort, himself this way. As if there had been anything which could have warmed, or comforted him...

At first occasional shudders had seized his body; and he´d trembled uncontrollably, but when the cold overwhelmed him in the end, his muscles all went rigid; and he sat motionless, his gaze unfocussed; the eyes shining with fever.

"You have to warn Elrond... Elrond..." His mantra´s almost magical significance was increasingly lost to him. A small part of Legolas' rational mind knew this and still fought the crushing hopelessness which threatened to overwhelm him. 

But there was another voice, full of evil triumph and malice, another mantra. It became louder and louder and finally drowned out everything else: "You've lost, elf. You've lost."

Legolas hadn´t wanted to sink into feverish dreams; dreams of fire and snakes; evil old eyes and orcs; dreams whom's horror sprang in their reality; he hadn't wanted that his mind was no longer able to distinguish between waking and dreaming; and surely he hadn't  planned to remain silent, when the door to his cell finally swung open, but he just felt too apathetically to fight it.

He didn't even know if he really wanted to drink the water someone held to his lips surprisingly gentle, while almost carefully supporting him. Water only would prolong his agony... 

Then he felt the taste of clean, cool water on his lips; his nostrils widened with the memory. He drank. Thirstily. The water had the taste of freedom.

**To be continued…**

**Author´s note: **No, I surely won´t beg for any reviews…I have my principles after all…it´s a matter of pride, you know… and I surely won´t blackmail my dear and precious readers to write some comments or I won´t finish this little story… No I would never do that …. 

Oh confound it, forget everything I wrote thus far… I would sell my grandmother to get any reviews… so pleaaaase review!!! One or two words only… I implore you…

**To Anon: **Don´t be afraid, I won´t stop writing soon. After all, I´m wondering myself how the story will end…

**To Hypy: **Here you go with another chapter…

**To Salak: **Of course every author is happy if he gets a lot of reviews (and I´m making no difference! When I have posted a new chapter, I check every five minutes if a new one has popped up!) But as long as I get some NICE rewievs – like yours – I will continue writing.

**To blue4dogs: **You´ve made me one of the most charming compliments I´ve ever heard!!! For I write my stories to bring ME into another world, and I´m very content to hear that it works for other people, too.

**To SpaceVixenX: **Adding to my favourites… these magical words did really encourage me to continue my little story faster. I think it took me "only" three weeks to update… that´s a new record!

**To Leg-less Harry: **No I wouldn´t dare to do that. I wait until I have written a real cliffhanger, like in this chapter, for example (evil grin all over my face!!!)…


	11. Summonings

**SUMMONINGS**

„Misty tales and poems lost

All the bliss and beauty

will be gone.

Will my weary soul find release

for a while

At the moment of death

I will smile.

It's the triumph of shame and disease

in the end"

**„And then there was silence"** by **"Blind Guardian"**

**I.**

Neither Mardin nor Elrond had to search for a confrontation, when morning dawned, for it appeared in its own right, when both elves, anxious to speak each other, finally met; Mardin with the grim resolution to content himself with nothing less than Legolas´ release; and Elrond with pride on his tongue and desperation in his heart.

They met in Elrond´s private rooms, where Mardin had burst in without even bothering to knock. Obviously he´d not been detained, most likely due to his determinate pace, or the threat of violence on his face. The fact that he'd come thus far unhindered didn't escape Elrond's notice; leaving him partly angry, partly anxious.

Yes, for a moment he felt a touch of anxiety, how easy it had been for the wood elf – fully armed - to get to the heart of Rivendell. Never had he felt like this before, fearing and mistrusting another elf, but Saruman´s dark words had embedded themselves deeply in his subconscious mind : "Greenleaf knows his way around Rivendell… Poison is a treacherous weapon... he might seek revenge..."

Elrond nipped his anger about Mardin´s informal entrance in the bud. He was beyond such profanities now. What was more: One couldn't really expect formal manners from a wood elf anyway, when not even their king… 

But Thranduil had perished, was gone like the most of his men. Elrond felt his throat tighten, realising once more how hard, and unexpected, the fall of the Mirkwood had hit the entire elvish people. How he wished that Thranduil, loud and far from diplomatic, but with his heart on the right spot, was here right now – all those misunderstandings among them would have been cleared in no time, by a good vintage! 

But Thranduil was past, and his, Elrond´s, sorrows had to concern the living.

Belatedly Elrond finally rose; and shortly nodded his head into the direction of the wood elf. Mardin repeated his gesture. The look in his eyes was full of pride, and he seemed far from intimidated, thus provingquite some composure; for he too had to be on the edge, alone and in the lion's den. Most likely he hadn´t slept much the last few days, although he knew to hide it quite well. 

The wood elf had almost sprung to attention, like an officer, taking orders from another, higher ranking officer.

Elrond chose to interpret his opponent's attitude as a sign of respect, while admitting to himself, although somewhat reluctantly, that he actually did respect the old war-horse from the Mirkwood, the elf which once had been one of Thranduil´s closest confidants, too. The sly fox had seen a lot – perhaps as much as Elrond had – so that only few things, good and evil, still had the force to shatter his stoicism; and Elrond knew instinctively, with a silent feeling of loss; that they could have been friends, under other circumstances. 

So they stood, face to face, both of them characteristically for their people, Elrond composed, controlled, imprisoned by his responsibility, punished with wisdom and clairvoyance; and Mardin, proud, valiant, brave, skilled in the use of arms and equipped with the sure instincts life as a hunter brought with it inevitably.

Mardin was the first to interrupt the heavy silence hanging between them.

"You know why I´m here." he said, his voice ringing out demure, and almost metallic. "I´m here to demand the release of my… our king, Legolas Greenleaf, in the name of my people."

"Then you ask for the release of a presumed poisoner." Elrond answered, dryly. 

Mardin´s eyes flashed angrily, his shoulders tautened; while Elrond lifted his chin. For a moment the wood elf seemed tempted to blurt out with wild accusations and a fit of anger; saying that these "poisoners" surely were to be foundelsewhere, but he swallowed all those bitter words on the tip of his tongue, in less than a wink, and answered: "It's always been the privilege of each people to judge it's criminals themselves. For ages we, the wood elves, have exercised this right, in the forests of the Mirkwood. Why do you try to hinder us now in doing so? Hand Legolas Greenleaf over to us; and we will sit in judgement on him. If we find him guilty of the murder of his brother..."

"All signs indicate that..." Elrond said, but then he broke off with a small sigh. If Mardin could keep his wits about him; despite his now barely controlled anger; he, Elrond, surely could do the same.

Behind them a door fell silently.

Elrond looked up, straight into Mardin's face. "Very well then," he said. "I'm willing to submit myself to your laws and tradi..".

"Lord Elrond!" a voice, young, breathless and pressed, coming from the door interrupted him. 

Elrond, rather angrily, turned, as did Mardin. The wood elf´s face was stoical, as usual, but he carefully brought his hands into the height of his hips. Although it most likely was an instinctive gesture, it plainly betrayed that he'd noticed the haunted expression of the palace guard interrupting their conversation all too well. 

The guard was still young. His chest rose and fell as if he had run, and he had hectic reddish spots on his normally pale face.

"Lord Elrond.." the elf repeated, for the third time now; and took a deep breath.

"Speak!" the elven king said, and it sounded sharper than he'd wanted it to sound. The guard involuntary stood at attention, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he closed it again. 

"Sir!" All his insecurity, and frustration, lay in this one word. His gaze flew over to Mardin, then instantly back on Elrond. The wood elf warrior took a step closer. Instinctively Elrond blocked his way by gripping the young soldier's arm. 

"Speak!" he repeated his previous command, calmer now, almost resigned, for his accurate, experienced instincts gave him ample warnings that he was about to precipitate a catastrophe. A catastrophe with no foreseeable consequences.

Again the palace guardian threw a timorous glance first at Mardin, then at Elrond, before he finally whispered: "The prisoner... Legolas Greenleaf...he's poisoned himself. They're fighting for his life right now. You might want to have a look after him as well.." He broke off, even paler than before, noticing Elrond's expression; and silently hung his head. Most likely he wished himself, like every messenger of bad news did, miles and miles away.

"Legolas poisoned." Mardin repeated sharply, his voice barely above a whisper.

The guard nodded his head unhappily. 

"They're fighting for his life right now." Mardin continued, his voice still not louder than the whisper of a soft summer wind, but there was anger resounding in it, seething and intense like a volcano instantly before it's outbreak. 

Elrond turned to face Mardin, his hands spread out in a defensive gesture, but Mardin shrank back from him, face distorted in abhorrence, his anger now unveiled and overwhelming.

"So you're fighting for his life, aren't you?" the wood elf jeered. 

Elrond dropped his hands. Mardin's words echoed in his head, and their derision deeply ate into his heart.

Only now he began to understand the extent of the rage that was seething in the wood elves, poisoning their minds as well as their hearts, and only now he started to comprehend what they really thought.

"But Greenleaf is still alive!" the messenger said, having followed the exchange of words nervously. 

"They have brought him to his brother, Elwyne, and our healers, and Gandalf, are taking care of him... perhaps..." The expression on his face beliedhis optimistic words.

Mardin hissed; it was a sound filled with hate. "You´ve not even handed us over the body of our fallen king," he said, and it sounded sad, and angry, at the same time. "Did you secretly fear the discovery of your own misdeeds that have led to our king´s death?" 

The wood elf shrank back, seemingly aghast at his own words, just after he´d said them, but still, they had been spoken; and now there was no way to take them back again. 

Elrond winced at them as if he´d been hit. He would have laughed at such wild accusations, normally, for they had been spoken in an uncontrolled emotional release, far from anything that was reasonable or proven. He would have laughed at them, normally, if he hadn´t known for sure that Mardin´s words just mirrored what the majority of the wood elves was thinking. That he´d killed Elwyne Greenleaf, and now was trying to do the same with his brother, Legolas, to gain the dominion over what was left of the wood elves´people, and treasures.

"Elwyne isn't dead," he then said gravely, knowing very well that by saying so he would either save the day, or turn a bad situation into a hopeless one. "He´s in our custody."

Mardin just stared at him, eyes wide open, dumbstruck. His jaw worked.

"He's been poisoned, and he is still very ill. Our healers hope that total isolation will save his life. At least there will be no second murderous attempt on him, as long as everyone believes him dead. That´s why…"

Elrond´s words had come in a rush; as he frantically tried to explain himself, but then, when he noticed his opponent´s expression, he broke off; and fell silent.

Mardin still just stared at him. There was a strange light in his eyes. "Hand them over to us, both of them." he finally said. He said it as if it were difficult for him to speak.

„They wrestle with death!" Elrond hadn't wanted to raise his voice, but he felt that he was loosing control; over himself, the damned wood elf in front of him, and the whole situation. Everything in his head had started to spin, had turned into a wild maelstrom of emotions, rage and fears, threatening to drag him under, merciless, into his dark depths. Again, an invisible demon seemed to dig its claws deep into his brain, painful and far worse than ever before, perturbing his senses, until thinking indeed seemed too big an effort.

"Don´t you think that Gandalf and my healers are more likely to find a cure for them as you will?" The latter he managed to say only in a whisper.

"You´ve done enough for us." The despise, the hate in Mardin´s face was difficult to bear. The wood elf seemed to have understoodnothing of what Elrond had said, or felt right now, captured in his own rage, his own pain, the elven king could even understand him. 

In the beginning, after the destruction of the Mirkwood, the survivors of Thranduil´s people had searched shelter in their hate of the orcs, to get over the horrible things that had befallen them; to cloudtheir sadness until they were finally ready to face the truth, and to grieve. 

Now, when they had been confronted with the fact that the popular and beloved son of their perished king most likely was a monster, a murderer, they reacted exactly the same way, turning their grief over the loss of their ideals concerning the royal family into hate. Into concentrated hate on the Rivendell elves and their leader, which was to blame for the downfall of their king as well as for Legolas´ poisoning, at least in their eyes. It was that hate which forced Elrond to fall silent. 

He didn´t move when Mardin finally, menacingly said: "I won´t repeat my demands, and no wood elf will be trying to come to terms with you a single second longer, Lord Elrond. All attempts todo so seem to be doomed. We´ll leave Rivendell forever with Elwyne and Legolas Greenleaf. Nothing that you´ll say or do will keep us from doing so, unlessyou´re planning to kill us all." Then he turned, infuriatingly slow, as if he was daring Elrond to try and hold him back, and left. 

Elrond did not move.

II.

His demon was much nearer than the elven king suspected; and far too real. He lurked before Elrond´s private room; ready to sow the last seed of poison into the hearts of the wood elves; since the moment the sad news of the poisoning of Thranduil´s youngest son had been reported to him. 

Of course an apprehensive wizard had hurried to the hastily arranged sick bed of the elf, face cavernous, his eyes reddish – out of sorrow, as Gandalf and the healers did interpret, or misinterpret it, for theywere the signs of a sleepless night, which Saruman had spent in a rush of eager anticipation and impatience. With malicious gloating he´d observed Gandalf, while the old fool was trying to stabilise the waning marrow of the elf. His efforts would be in vain; that much was easily to predict.

Elrond had not even been notified ofGreenleaf´s critical state when a messenger, looking for the king, had burst in, announcing the arrival of an enraged, and armed wood elf. When the messenger had left the sick room, in which a dozen people now had gathered, still in search of Elrond, Saruman had followed him, only moments later, knowing that an opportunity had been afforded to him that would allow him –with some luck – to put one last wedge between the wood- and the Rivendell elves. 

The one which would drive them to war.

He was proven correct.

With the sleepwalking security of an experienced intriguer he chose exactly the right moment to leave the niche he´d been hidden inthus far, in front of Elrond´s private rooms, and he was wearing exactly the right air, a mixture of disheartenment and resignation, to casually collide with the retreating wood elf. 

Mardin shrank back as if he´d been burned. For a moment his face mirrored abhorrence, but the elf had regained his control almost immediately. His eyes searched for Saruman´s face, and there was a silent question in them. Saruman returned the look, trying to hide the antipathy he felt for the old warrior. Then he averted his eyes and shook his head, silently. Mardin drew in a sizzling breath, his eyes widened in horror. He staggered back a step, and then started to pass Saruman, almost running. The wizard´s hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-tracks. "I´m sorry." he said. "Legolas Greenleaf has died this very morning. I fear his brother will follow him to the shadows. Soon." He fell silent, biting his lower lip, to hide the triumphant smile that threatened to creep onto his face.

Hate fell like a curtain over the eyes of the wood elf. He shook off Saruman´s hand.

**III.**

The wood elves did summon. Some of them were still occupied making some last arrows; others checked their bows and swords on their availability.

But most of them just stood there, waiting silently, their faces solemn and stony, and they offered a fierce, savage sight, standing side by side, row by row, tall, proud figures; and yet a sad one, for if one would have looked at them more closely, one would have noticed that their weapons were sparse and hurriedly made; and that they did not wear anything that was worth being called "armour", apart from their leathery chemises; and not a single wood elf did call a helm it´s own.

Yes, they were armed with nothing but their bows, and their legendary skills with this weapon, and tenacity and anger; and an experienced old fox as their leader. 

They were few; and poorly armed; thus resembling tramps more than proud elves – and still every experienced commander of an army would have feared them; them and their desperation, the resignation that could be seen in their eyes and in their every gesture and which they carried in their hearts.

An experienced commander of an army would have recognised them forwhat they really were: lost souls, root- and homeless, deprived of everything that had been precious to them; and perilous. They were like beasts of prey, trapped in a wolf trap, knowing instinctively that they were lost; and still their nature made them fight to the last; regardless of their own lives, for which they did not see a future anyway.

It was resignation, not pride, which made the wood elves take up their arms,as it would be resignation that would enable them to march against Rivendell in a maddeningly absurd attack – if Elrond indeed would call in his warriors – trying to free the one son of their fallen king which was still alive; and to get hold of the body of the other. And to revenge them both, if everything else would fail.

An experienced commander of an army knew that even blunt weapons were deadly, wielded with resignation.

**IV.**

A single orc is a pretty ugly matter. Being physically as well as psychically deformed, his limited mind occupies itself only with feeding, fighting and killing, whereby he´ll choose a conspecific as a victim as well as anyone else; if boredom forces him to spoil for a fight.

He´s unreckonable, because he does not calculate much, not in the long run. That's what makes him dangerous; but still if he's on his own, he´s a cowardly figure, attacking from an ambush; and fleeing if his victim strugglestoo much; or shows its teeth unexpectedly. 

An orc will leave his prey to the lion, if he is forced to; then feed on the rest they eventually leave behind.

A group of orcs is something very different. In numbers they havea great deal of courage and strength they lack if left alone. 

Orcs in groups attack more openly and even stronger enemies. Their determination has a completely different dimension; for they only falter in their attack if most of them lay dead in their own blood. 

A horde of them is dangerous; and their look does not only fill the hearts of the elves with hatred and abhorrence. Even the land feels their foulish presence, groaning and sighing under their footfalls, becoming grey, dark, and stained, and every life still capable of fleeing will desert it.

But most dangerous the orcs are if a mighty and capable mind knows how to direct their brutal force according to his wishes; and to buy their loyalty with promises of rich prey. His fee for such efforts will be a mighty, menacing, and merciless army, a plundering, parching, robbing and killing horde, its look sufficient to bereave even experienced men of their courage. Orcs will turn into a incredibly mighty weapon in the hands of someone knowing how to use them – and they fitted into Saruman´s hand perfectly well. 

**V.**

The orcs did summon; a black, dark, blood-thirsty horde they were, their armours as wildly conglomerated as their weapons, united only in their impatience, their lust for a fight and their hunger for prey. 

They did summon in the north, in the woods, and they were like bloodhounds on the first hunt after a long idle winter, slobbering and panting, tearing at their chains, when the rush of a chivvy once again did infatuate their senses.

**VI.**

Elrond stood on the front terrace of his house and watched the deployment of a battalion of his most skilled warriors with silent resignation. They offered a beautiful and proud sight, with their glistening gold and silver armours, their helms, and their masterly produced weapons. They acted disciplined and watchful, and they were commanded by capable officers, but, unbeknown to them, they had a wavering leader.

Yes, he, Elrond, was wavering – something that not even the king's worst enemies would have accused him of in the past – and unsure of what was to be done next; a hesitance that paralysed his mind, thus keeping him from acting, and which, as he secretly feared, was also conferred to the other Rivendell elves. 

It was costly, his hesitance, for time wore away mercilessly, painfully fast like the first hours of amorousness, time he surely would misslater, trying to keep the wood elves from their desperate acts. 

Deep inside he knew. He could even comprehend the wood elves' anger, and their rage, after having heard Mardin's accusation; knowing very well now how the news of Elwyne´s imprisonment and Legolas' arresting – and poisoning - must have affected them. 

He´d not wanted to call up soldiers, but his counsellors had had a different opinion. Albeit Elrond was still willing to spare the wood elves under all circumstances; he could not – and would not – have his own way at the expense of his people. 

His gaze wandered back to the warriors which now guarded his house; and all other houses in Rivendell. "Perhaps…" he reflected, "…their martial sight will be enough to discourage the wood elves. Even they will have to accept that they are no match for us – if were are determined to resist their intrusion." His intellect still clang at such reasonable thoughts. His instincts said something different. 

Then the messenger he´d sent a few minutes ago was finally back. Elrond acknowledged the elf's respectful greeting, and then asked without transition: "Did you find Aragorn; and my daughter?"

The messenger shook his head. 

„They took two horses out of the stables yesterday, the late morning, and rode away. They didn't leave a message, and their whereabouts are unknown." he said; and turned his gaze to the floor.

"They have left yesterday morning." Elrond repeated, thoughtfully, self-absorbed; and the messenger mutely nodded and carefully avoided the king's questioning glance, as if he didn´t want to see the painful trait that had formed around his king´s eyes. Then, when Elrond seemed not willing to say anything further, he bowed, and withdrew.

Elrond turned around to look over Rivendell once more. Once more he felt like being caught in ice, for he was freezing, freezing to the marrow, even though the spring sun had found back to it's old forces; and he felt alone, very much so.

In an almost physical effort Elrond tried to rouse the army leader inside him, the determinate, merciless strategist which moved his soldiers like men on a chessboard; the one which would stand victorious, at the end of the game, after all moves had been made, the one which had managed to preserve most of his pawns, and knights, and towers.

The sun was warming his face while he gradually realised that he lacked the strength he was desperately searching for. 

And finally, with a vague feeling of loss, Elrond suddenly knew what was missing. The wood elves had lost their king, that much was undeniable, but his starting point was no better, for he lacked his queen; and a knight. The realisation came almost painful: His chessmen in this game were positioned wrongly, completely wrongly, and he, the king, was uncovered. 

Elrond feared the start of the game.

**VII.**

He didn´t know how long he´d stood there, blinking into the sun that shone over Rivendell. All he knew was that he suddenly felt a presence behind him; a presence of someone he had not heard coming. "May I have a talk with you." Gandalf´s agreeable voice interrupted his black thoughts, and the elven king mutely nodded. He did not even need to turn around and take a look at Gandalf´s face to know that it were no idle matters his old advisor and friend wanted to discuss with him, for he could feel the distress the old wizard radiated, thus mirroring his own feelings. Gandalf looked over his shoulders, as if he was searching for something, or someone.

"Very well then." He cryptically said. "Let´s go somewhere private." 

**VIII.**

With his thumb Saruman softly, abstractedly, caressed the feathers of the black bird with the knowing little eyes. The screeker instantly hacked at his finger, inflicting him a small, bleeding wound. The wizard ignored the pain, most likely didn´t even feel it; for physical pains did not bother him, now, in the rush of his success, now, that Elrond's ring was at arms length to him.

„The wood elves are prepared and ready to attack..." he repeated the words of his dark spy. „They summon in the north, where the forests of Rivendell are dark and thick; and carelessly observed." 

An evil smile was on his thin lips when he remembered the hate he'd read in Mardin´s eyes; after telling him about Legolas' death. The elf hadn't doubted his words, not even for a second - just as little he´d doubted that Elrond indeed had disposed of Greenleaf´s brother.

It was very convenient that the elves did trust more in him than they had ever trusted each other…

Well, he´d sown his evil seed; and soon it was ready to be harvested, for he knew for sure now that tomorrow the wood elves would attack Rivendell; and not only in trying to free Elwyne Greenleaf, but also with the desperate appetence for revenge, revenge for Legolas´ supposed death. 

Elrond - which still did underestimate the danger on the part of the wood elves by far – would be caught completely unaware; confronted with the sight of the unleashed wood elves. Had he at least thought of positioning some guards in Rivendell?

Not that it did matter. Even if he would have summoned many soldiers – with what the wood elves would spare, his orcs would have a walk over. As they had had with Thranduil´s people, in the days the Mirkwood was burning.

Venom was penetrating his thoughts like the first sun rays penetrated the morning mist.

"Well, Elrond," he jeered. „Did you ever imagine that things would come so far that you´ll have to position warriors to defend your house against your own kind?

Soon, oh so soon you´ll be forced to watch the downfall of your people; and you will watch helplessly, with no chance to change your fate. Soon you´ll stand in front of the wreckage of your realm, and your life, and then you´ll kneel in front of me, bereft of your arrogance, your pride, your power and your lordlyness; and you´ll kiss your on ring at my finger.

Your downfall will be my raising, when I, Saruman, will declare myselfas the new ruler of Rivendell, a triumph that will be the first one among a long row of triumphs, when I finally have all elven rings under my sway. My orcs stand behind me, ranks closed. Where are your friends, now that you need them, Elrond of Rivendell?"

To be continued…

**Author's note: **

NEW! NEW! NEW! The new chapter of this story has been beta-readed by **Elise**, also writing for fanfiction.net. I'm truly happy that you didn't spare the effort to read through the whole chapter in such a short time!!! 

Well, my story's already quite long… over 60'000 words I guess… and I'm not getting too many reviews (**SpaceVixenX** and **Morloth**, do not read this, I'm very happy about your nice comments!!!)… so if there's anyone else out there who has read thus far…. Could you please !!! leave a comment… just "Yep, read it" or "ok" or something like this…


	12. Hate unleashed

**Hate unleashed**

„Through bitterness and sorrow

the father and the son

they´re gone.

The sun shines bright

and anger rises

Lorn and lonely

torn apart.

Don't you think

it´s time to stop now

We were charmed and fooled

by the old serpent's kiss."

**"Battlefield"** by **"Blind Guardian"**

**I.**

There are these days, from which men later will say that it would have been better had they never dawned. "Black days" they will be called then, and their mere mention will fill the hearts of the listeners with something that is described best as "awesome horror". The most dreadful "black days" are those which suddenly, and unexpectedly, befall a people, bringing forth chaos, death and destruction; thus imprinting themselves ineffaceable in the memory of those who lived to see them.

The elves do not know "black days". Maybe they have seen too many of these, in time periods in which generations of men grow up and die away, to name them. Or else their remembrance is outweighed by the memories of good and noble things the wheel of time brings about; as sure as the spring sun finally spirits away the last shadows of winter.

Until one day, a day will dawn that will teach even the elves the meaning of a black day. A day like this, when the Rivendell elves – under the leadership of Elrond – set out to prevent an attack of the wood elves fraught with hate, in full armour. A day like this, when hordes of orcs were gathering near the very heart of Rivendell, eager to pitch into the elves on their part. The differences between wood- and Rivendell elves was of little meaning to them. They all were prey. 

**II.**

The rising sun mercilessly pushed away the long shadows and the sporadically, fast dissolving frazzles of mist from the previous night. Every spot it fell on was colouredwith exactly the shade of red that can be observed only on misty spring mornings. 

Elrond surveyed the light-flooded Rivendell, as if seeing it for the first time, almost searchingly; like someone who has lost his way, trying to memorise every detail, and then, with a shudder, he ran his hand over his forehead, just as someone arousing would do, while his heart tightened in his chest in a strange mixture of grief and melancholy.

**III.**

It was not only the sun which coloured reddish spots on Saruman´s face, for the wizard was glowing from the inside, in ill-natured anticipation and gloating triumph, even in his eyes there was a strange light.

"There you ride, Elrond, king of all Rivendell-elves, fool that you are." he thought; or maybe even whispered it, for his lips were moving silently, murmuring, but his words were lost in the occasional snorting of a horse, or the clangour from metal on metal.

"Gandalf was not able to offer you a satisfying piece of advise, was he? Or did you finally come to the conclusion that the wood elves indeed are dangerous, on your own accord? 

It has been so easy to influence you this time, easier than it was ever before, for you had started to put up resistance, with a strength I didn't expect in you, half elf, and it took me quite some time to break it again, your resistance. It´s been so easy… letting this new plan maturate in your brain, desperate as you were… to to go to meet the gathering wood elves – with warriors fully armed, and mounted! Not to attack them, oh no, but to intimidate them with your overwhelming majority, to force them to retreat in peace; in order to spare their life. Four hundred warriors against a handful barbarians from the woods! Forsooth a majority; seen in this light, but a majority only until my orcs will attack. A fool you are, Elrond, if you still believe you´ll be able to intimidate the wood elves! Do you still misconceive their desperation in such a way? Don´t you see that they will judge your appearance in front of their camp as a last, open aggression in a long row of hidden, underhanded deeds? With your deployment Elrond, you´ll drive them to war as surely as my orcs will overrun you, on my sign; and you´ll facilitate their task, by provoking a massacre between your elves and the wood elves, until the red of your blood on Rivendell´s ground will compete with the red glowing of the sun."

Saruman reined in his horse as the wood elves' camp finally came into his range of vision, thus letting pass one mounted elf warrior after another, and all the time his stinging glare was ceaselessly directed at Elrond´s back. 

He, Saruman, was not absolutely keen on being in the front line in a battle between elves… Even more so when Gandalf obviously had not considered it necessary to ride at Elrond´s side, judged by the fact that he was nowhere to be seen…

The ring, however, was as good as certain to him. He only had to memorise the place where Elrond would fall – or surrender to the orcs, if they had brains enough to recognise a precious hostage. The king's ring; and with it the dominance over all elves, soon would fall into his lap, like an overripe fruit falling from a tree.

The well-known greed, more untameable than ever now, flared up in him and a thin thread of spittle appeared in the left corner of his mouth. 

He could feel it in the air. Any second now the first elves would sink to the ground mortally wounded, foolish astonishment frozen on their flawless, now numbed faces, and a hail of wood elves´ arrows would darken the sky. The black day of the elves had come. 

**IV.**

Elrond, whose heavy armour weighed easily, compared to the burden of responsibility pressing down on him, longed to see the faces of the warriors around him. Did they feel how he felt? Their helms were blocking his sight efficiently, though. It was not necessary to turn his head, to see what they thought, anyway, for he could feel it. They radiated it, fear, insecurity of what might follow, and resignation; but also anger, and hate so intense it took Elrond´s breath away, and he drew in breath in short, almost painful gasps. From the corner of his eyes he discovered the first wood elf warriors; hidden in the trees around them, most likely guardians; and they were like black, intangible, voluble shadows, threatening, demonical shadows, their bows tense and arisen. 

Then Elrond got a glimpse at one of these shadows, only fleetingly, but it was enough to recognise the hate on his face. No, Elrond didn´t have to turn his head to see how his warriors felt. He was sure their faces mirrored the ones of the wood elves.

The glimpse at the wood elf entailed a moment of non-attention from his side, maybe a comprehensible non-attention, but a perilous one, for in this very moment a wood elf´s arrow missed his left temple only by an inch, and it was followed by some other wood elves´ arrows. 

Beside him an elf groaned, as if in pain, but Elrond did not have the time to take care of this, for it was this very moment the orcs chose to debouch from the wood; incapable of controlling their lust for blood any longer, like a hunting pack too sure of their prey, a dark, irresistible, baneful flood. Some of them emitted a growl, arising deep in their throats. Dissonant and threatening, the sounds were echoed by the trees, multiplied and fell down on the elves, piercing their eardrums, like the claws of a hawk did with its prey. It was painful, paralysing like a rain of ice, and paralysed they were, the elves, through the mere sight of their archenemies, or through their blood curling cries, it was difficult to tell, but they stood motionless. Motionless like their leader. Elrond sat, highly erected, a tall, proud, but lonely figure, on his horse. Something akin to a smile was on his lips, desperate and cruel at the same time, devoid of every gaiety, while he held his gaze directed on the black flood of the attacking enemy. Then he slowly lifted his right hand; and then time stood still. 

To be continued…

**Author's note: **This chapter is unusually short, I admit, but I just couldn't resist the open ending… Anyway, comments on this are more than welcome!!!

**To Elise: **Thanks again for beta-reading (and such a fast one)! It's very nice to re-read my writings and erase all the small things I've gotten wrong. If you go on like this I'll send you my biology diploma thesis to correct… (Now, that was a joke, of course. You would be bored silly!) 

**To SpaceVixenx: **I'm truly happy I can count on your reviews, so there will be at least one after each chapter (Everyone who has read thus far and left no review: You know what you have to do, don't you? J) Never mind the homework:  **** happens. I think it's worse to write fanfiction instead of working… which I actually do!

**To Morloth: **You're also counting to the circle of "people constantly reviewing", and it's members are very dear to me J !

**To Zat: **Well, about updating soon – sorry for the delay. It always takes me quite some time to arrange the new chapters in my head – not to speak of the translations… but I think the story will be finished in about half a year or so… J

**To Tapetum lucidum: **I'm sure most of us authors like to "torture" the poor Tolkien characters in one way or another, and I'm no exception. That's why Sam, Arwen and Aragorn are staying in the woods another chapter J! And I think I'll adopt Mardin for my next story, which will be started in distant future. (But I have the title yet: "Of kings and strongholds") 


	13. Battlefield

13. Battlefield

**I. **

Saruman "The Wise" hadn't obtained his surname for nothing. Even in the – now quite distant – days of his youth a felicitous mixture of cool, clear intellect and ambition, from the almost unlimited sort, had made sure that he attracted attention from teachers both appropriate and capable. He hung at their lips, being taken up completely in whatever they taught him, positively absorbing their knowledge - until he outwitted them. 

He'd gained fame swiftly, all too swiftly; and as every climber did, he soon was confronted with grudgers, hostility from the commonality, and the loneliness of rulers, an unholy trinity which easily could have been his downfall (for he was inexperienced in the art of intrigues still) if he hadn't possessed another inherent skill, vastly underestimated by his numerous enemies: Instinct. Saruman exhibited the refined senses of wild, and untamed animals, and he was able to read the hearts of most creatures, if he judged them worthy to do so. Once he'd perfected his skills, his enemies, if they still had some relevance, finally had to accept his superiority. 

He'd been guided by a broad, somewhat superficial love of all beings in Middle-Earth then, and he, meritedly, became the respected wizard he still was nowadays in the eyes of many. But this love was lost eventually, gradually dying back from when he made the discovery he could not only read the thoughts of his fellow men, but also manipulate them. And Saruman, the duteous, the controlled, the educated, was completely unprepared for the storm of feelings that suddenly awoke in him; and the dominant and all consuming one was greed for power. 

It slowly turned him into the monster he is today. 

The tragic thing about his fall was that he didn't notice it. He didn't notice how he finally lost his last ethical principles, and the last compassionate part of his heart; carelessly forgetting that it was them that had paved his way to power and influence. 

Together with them he lost his anchor to reality; and Saruman, a more than experienced player on the chessboard of political intrigues, committed exactly the same mistake he'd warned everyone else from more than once. He started to consider himself invincible, neglecting the old saying that too big a raising will bring about a deep fall, at least in the world of mortals. 

It was his megalomania that finally overthrew him, a megalomania that pictured vivid images of incredible power in his feverish brain; and a megalomania that let him misconceive the signs that he was about to accept a defeat; a defeat that would be more bitter than everything that had befallen him before.

**II.**

There were many signs though. 

Of course he noticed that the wood elves' arrows, being led by Rivendell's king and his warriors riding in the front line, missed their aim, or narrowly missed it; in a way that required even more skill than just hitting the target. 

Of course he saw that the expected hail of wood elves' arrows became a piteous flash in the pan at best; and not a single Rivendell elf did even sway in the saddle. 

Of course he saw that no further figures moved shadow-like in the trees, around Elrond and his elves, but still in his triumphant mind the jigsaws refused to fall together, as if he anticipated what their image, once finished, would show: The image of a devastating defeat.

His instincts raised an alarm though, when a small group of five hooded riders, wrapped in dark cloaks, blazed their trail to Elrond's side, Elrond, who still simply watched the approaching flood of the orcs, weirdly motionless, and weirdly composed. But then they answered with vehemence, and immediately, causing a slight dizziness in his head and nausea in his stomach to form. 

Saruman gritted his teeth. His hands clenched the reins of his horse. His brain frantically worked; but still – perhaps for the first time in his life – his mind found nothing to which it could cling to, no straws, no other plan – the pieces of the puzzle didn't fall together. 

Only when the hooded riders finally reached their destination, and drew back their hoods; only when he saw Gandalf and Aragorn among them, drawing their swords and taking their stand beside the elvenking, only when Elrond shouted something elvish in a loud, resounding voice, widely audible, and only when he saw the Rivendell elves now starting to divide themselves like the Red sea, did he understand deep down in his withered heart that his fall had begun. 

Still his intellect refused to accept the scene unfolding before his eyes, refused to accept what he saw here; for the shock he'd suffered was still too fresh. He noticed the elves around him pointing their bows into his direction, threateningly, and the cold hand of defeat gripped his heart, and the bitter taste of bile was suddenly on his tongue. 

Saruman squinted, his breath caught in his throat – and then, with an almost incredible effort of will, he got over the panic that had pulsed through him only seconds before. 

He was Saruman, Saruman the Great, and here, at this borderline, this turning point of his advancement he once more proved his perilousness, for from that moment he didn´t waste any thought on the defeat he´d suffered. All he was concerned about now was how he could contain the damage it had brought. 

His piercing glare fell on the elves surrounding him, their weapons menacingly risen. „You may think you've caught a fox." he thought in a sudden flush of hate. „But give me a moment of inattention – and you'll see how a ravaging wolf will tear you apart."

It was the last emotional release he allowed himself. Then he looked ahead, with narrow eyes; and mentally he congratulated the elvenking for the perfection of the snare he'd set.

**III.**

It was like a scene from a classical play; a scene in which all participant actors  appear on stage just once more, for the final act, in which the fate of all will be decided; and still no one knows if the final curtain will fall behind a tragedy or not.

It was like a scene from a classical play, with one significant difference: The blood that was being spilt was real; and everyone falling would not raise again to accept the final applause.

 It was like a scene from a classical play, and Elrond was its director.

On his command the army of the Rivendell-elves parted, gave way to the approaching black flood of orcs, without any resistance - and then circled it in two groups, swiftly, until they surged at the orcs, like brisk, thunderous water nagging at an obstacle, softly losing ground again and again; but adamant, and tireless, until every hindrance is shattered and finally vanishes into the flood. 

The orcs shrank back. 

To the elves, as fast as lightning on their agile horses, attacking as rapidly as falcons did; and to their masterly aimed arrows, they had nothing to oppose; even more so because their enemies did not stand up to them. 

At the sides of the orc front they dropped like flies; and panic began to take possession of their survivor´s senses.

Elrond, armed like his warriors except for that he wasn't helmed, saw it; and in a grim smile he bared his white, flashing teeth. Yes, he did not stand out, did not even wear one single sign of authority, but still anyone would have acknowledged him as the leader** of the field right away; for the king of the Rivendell elves, as self controlled, and even gentle though he usually was, now radiated an almost tangible aggressiveness that made everyone, even his allies, give way from him. **

The elvenking slowly unsheathed his sword; and while his companions did the same, he bent forward; tense like a slender hound on a sure scent, and he waited. For the scene unfolding before his eyes had not reached it's culmination yet. 

He waited. 

In the meantime the orcs had obviously recovered from their first shock, for they now forged ahead, stumbling and pushing, blindly trampling over their fallen co specifics, and like gregarious animals in mindless panic they followed the only way of escape that was offered to them. 

 Straight towards Elrond and his fellow warriors. 

Straight towards Rivendell. 

The grim smile on the elven king's face wore off, and he narrowed his eyes, as if he instinctively tried to shut out what he saw: A black, threatening flood, already reduced, and embanked, through the attacks of the elves at it's sides, but still not running dry, still impressive, and still baneful.  

And still the event that Elrond waited for, increasingly desperate, had not arrived.

There came visions instead, images inside his head, so vivid – as they always were - that Elrond immediately got absorbed in their world, was lost in reverie for a few seconds, caught in a state he neither knew to explain, nor to avoid; as if the visions had the specific power to take possession of him, until nothing else remains to be done than giving them the attention they claim.

This time the visions turned out to be nightmares. 

 There were images of a Rivendell totally destroyed, drowned, and flooded, devoid of everything alive, images of battles and fights, in which elven warriors, women and even children were slaughtered by orcs, more numerous than the leaves on a tree in full bloom. Images of elvish faces, pale, flawless, the lights in their eyes extincted, with trickles of blood in the corners of their mouths. And there were images of wood elves, over and over again, staring at him with their wild, and angry faces, their eyes so inquiring, so accusing  – before they fell under a black flood of orcs.

It was their accusing stare which sent a cold shiver down Elrond´s spine, whilst the rest of his cool intellect desperately clang to the warm knowledge that these images were only visions haunting him, visions, from which he´d often wondered if they simply arose from his subconsciousness; or if they were some heritage of his ancestors, hidden deep in the innermost part of his soul; or if they really showed something the future might bring about, and therefore were true foreshadowings. 

He remembered that Galadriel had not answered his questions in this regard except with a smile that had not reached her eyes, and he remembered how her tall, slender figure had gone rigid. Elrond had not hassled her further.

Then the visions left him as suddenly as they had come and Elrond breathed deeply, redeemed, laboriously suppressing the trembling that suddenly had seized his body. His breath still came intermittently, and his face was covered in cold sweat. Even though he knew himself to be back, back to solid reality now, although he knew that his mental absence had lasted only seconds; he couldn't get rid of the sinking feeling that his realm would be lost, despite their efforts, drowned and flooded by their archenemies. 

He despised himself because of his weakness, but the memory of the recent visions pressing him was still too vivid to be ignored, and he instinctively knew that the fate of one of the last elvish realms indeed was on the edge of a knife – for still the event on which his trap relied on had not yet taken place. 

Elrond again closed his eyes. Beside him Aragorn stifled a curse between his teeth.

Then it came, what the elven king so desperately had hoped for, first as a soft singing, not louder than the lullaby of a mother, swelling to a loud hissing that filled the air – the wood elves, scattered in the trees on both sides of the orcs´ platoon, dispersed in between the already attacking Rinvendell elves and those who still held out with Elrond, had taken their part in the battle for Rivendell. 

Since they were almost invisible in their hiding places, the music of their bows resembled the eerie singing of a menacing Greek chorus, raising its voice behind the scene. 

More orcs fell when the wood elves' arrows found their intended victims, and they fell with the deadly precision of Swiss clockwork. The flood of the orcs became shallower, but still it was not stopped. Elrond relaxed, and then he shouted a short, snatchy command. The time of the heroes of this play had come.

The flood was here.

**IV.**

At the beginning it was so easy. Aragorn only had to ride through the rows of the orcs to effortlessly mow them down, and they fell as easily as corn under the harvest moon. 

Their killing did not require any skill, had little relation to the art of swordplay Aragorn had perfected in his youth and while he literally hacked his way through the orcs, he felt the bitter taste of bile in his throat and the flaring of a dull headache, as if this way of killing, nothing more than a brutal slaughtering, was displeasing him even though he knew he fought for his life, even though orcs were the slaughter cattle. Still his displeasure did not cause his hands to shake nor did it slow down the vehemence of his strokes and desperately the orcs gave way to him, the human slayer, fighting among elves. 

Aragorn was the warrior, the hero of this final act, fighting, as it should be, for his love, and for those who had offered him a home, who had been father, mother, brothers, sisters and friends to him as long as he could remember; and he fought for what was still good and pure in those days in Middle-Earth.

Most likely it was a mixture of all these motives that urged on Isildur´s son, that never allowed his arm to weaken, even when he already had to catch his breath and the sweat on his face was intermingling with blood and dirt.

**V.**

What Gandalf fought for, no one did understand yet. It was enough, anyway, that he did fight, adroitly, mercilessly, with more strength than one assumed in his haggard, still almost uncrooked stature, and where his stroke fell, no one would rise again.  He fought, as it was the way of wizards, restrained, cool headed, never using his sword for a single superfluous stroke, and never did he allow the blood thirst, to which especially men are susceptible in war, to get hold on his senses.

An uninvolved observer might been tempted to say that Gandalf did not really fight, but rather abstain from battle, in spite of his magical powers. He would have wronged the wizard, though, for Gandalf was there. 

Whenever a warrior was in unexpected difficulties, whenever an orc tried to lead a backstabbing stroke, or a wounded elf had to be salvaged from the hazard zone, Gandalf was there, and he saved many lives that day, but still he never forgot to throw a glance at Saruman from time to time, Saruman, who still sat on his horse without moving, flanked by at least a dozen grim looking elves, and his almost eerie composure did trouble the grey wizard a great deal. 

Rightly, as it turned out to be later, for now the tide began to turn; and not in favour for the elves.

To be continued…

**Author´s note:  **To everyone reading this… You suddenly feel relaxed…very relaxed… and carefree… and happy… ( repeat 24 times ) …and you suddenly feel like writing a review… a nice one… a long one… 

Yes, I´m trying to hypnotize you, I admit it! Just to get some reviews! Think of the poor hard working author, and her beta-reader **Elise **(I´m still very happy about your efforts!), and please review… send a nice one… a long one… (repeat 24 times)

**To Narcolinde/Morloth/SpaceVixenX and Elise: **As you see above, I have to take desperate measures to get more reviews… but after all, I´m not too sad about it, as long as I have an exclusive circle of readers (to which you belong to, of course), who seem to like my story! Thanks for your reviews!!!


	14. At the Edge of a Knife

**14. On the edge of a knife**

(...)

„Sors salutis et virtutis

mihi nunc contraria

est affectus

et defectus

semper in angaria

hac in hora

sine mora

cordum pulsum tangite

nunc per sortem

sternit fortem

mecum omnes plangite!"

(...)

„When health  
and virtue  
are against me,  
are only pain  
and exhaustion,  
forever in this vale of tears.  
So at this hour  
without delay  
pluck the vibrating strings;  
since Fate  
strikes down the strong man,  
everyone weep with me!"

(freely translated)

**„Oh Fortuna" from **Carl Orff****

**I. **

Men in Middle-Earth say that good and evil are constantly at war, a war in which soon  the former, soon the latter force gains the upper-hand, and all their stories, tales, myths and legends - at least the often narrated ones - entwine around this war, in one way or another. This belief mirrors the ambivalent nature of man itself, whom's soul is torn hither and thither between light and darkness, and capable of both heroic deeds and catty felonies at the same time.

"There were golden ages once" the aged use to say, and the look of their eyes becomes absent, for they know with the wisdom of old age that they will undergo such times only beyond this world; and some of them, the wiser ones, probably sense that all that´s pure and good often solely survives in the stories they tell their grandchildren; the stories of bright young knights and their exploits, of farmer sons with valiant hearts, of true lovers, and of valour, honesty, and virtue. Never does the human mind create more heroes than in dark times.

The elves believe that the forces of good and evil are well outbalanced. Eons of seconds, hours, days and years passing by had taught them that everything evil will bear something good eventually, while everything good may already carries the seed of evil, deeply hidden in it's core. They know that light and darkness are not easily distinguished, since they both intermingle into one another like watercolours in the rain, turning into a shade of grey that dissolves every sharp outline.

It is difficult to say which of these point of views is more accurate. But at this day, when the Rivendell elves, together with the small group  of surviving wood elves, faced up to an army of bloody-minded orcs  in order to defend one of the last elvish realms, it seemed, however, that indeed the humans were right – too many evil, destructive forces were unleashed this day, the ones of the orcs, Saruman's, ready to destroy the good forces of the elves, a wizard and a human, and ready to enrich the world of men of yet another dark story : The one of the downfall of the free elvish people. 

**II. **

It started with the elves attacking on the left flank of the orc's rows. Be it because they clashed with a pack of especially fearless, war-experienced orcs – qualities they showed to an increasing degree, and alarmingly fast those days – be it because they were less covered by wood elves' arrows, since the natural cover was sparse on their side – their advancing was slowed down first, then stopped; when more and more of them died, pierced by black arrows or spears, slain by axes or swords, while the orcs seemed to gather new strength from their dying, as if they nourished on the blood of their victims. 

And this was only the beginning.

**III. **

Few were there on the battlefield who knew to keep a survey of the course the battle was taking besides the struggles they were entangled in, apart maybe from Gandalf, the wizard, and Aragorn, in whom's veins royal blood was circulating; and Elrond and Saruman, which had exercised the necessary skills even in times of peace, albeit in another context. 

Elrond saw the retreat of his warriors at the left side of the triangle he knew to be the last hope of the elves remaining in Rivendell, and his heart grew heavy. He'd played out all the cards he'd held in his hands militating in favour of a victory of the elves against the orcs' supposed superiority – oh, no one knew how many of these vicious creatures crept through the forests of Rivendell, but there were rumours of course - The moment of surprise, the far reaching bows, the swiftness and mobility of elves attacking on horses – and like his left edge his hopes now disintegrated that this actually would countervail against  the cards the orcs had to deal out: Warriors and bloodlust, and the berserk strength of someone knowing he's caught in a deadly trap. 

Elrond saw it, and his heart was bleeding, but still he didn't send support to his endangered fighters. First he had to know if the warriors he led, or the ones on the right edge of the triangle, were able to fight back Saruman's hounds on their part; for there was one thing neither he, nor any other elf, could allow to happen: That the orcs found their way to Rivendell to rage among it's defenceless victims. "More or less defenceless", the elfenking mentally corrected himself immediately, while an image of Arwen emerged in his head, and he smiled at the strange things he thought of in the  middle of a battle. "Not as long as a single elf is standing on his feet, has an arrow left, or still is able to lift and use a sword!"

Elrond saw it, and while he jerked his sword into the throat of the first orc coming into his reach, he knew the weighing scale of war had started to subside to his disfavour, and thus heralded the second stage in the battle for Rivendell, which might would prove fateful for the elves, for it was the one of the man-against-man combat, the one of the light against the darkness, of elf against orc, and the one he'd wanted most to avoid. He did not doubt the skills of his warriors in hand-to-hand-combat – but forced to face up to their enemies more vulnerable they were, and immune against a superiority, they weren't.

"Well." Elrond thought with the courage of desperation and attacked another small group of five orcs. "Let's deplete their superiority then."

The elven king killed many, but still he couldn't chase the probing fear that his left edge was soon going to fall completely.

„On the left side they're on the brink of a break-through." Saruman thought, never tearing his eyes from the events on the battle-field.  "Elrond's fighters there are too dispersed to offer resistance for much longer!" 

Still he didn't dare to give free rein to his suddenly budding hopes – too deeply the failing of his plans had shattered him – but he observed the battle closer now, and lurking, like a big, treacherously peaceful animal of prey, and what he saw pleased him, and seemed to prove him right.

Yes, there was no denying it: The elves were pushed back, especially on the left side, but also their thrust on the right side was now slowing down. 

An alarming smile started to play around Saruman's lips.

"You ought to send warriors to the left, Elrond!" he thought while he watched the wood elves, having provided the rear cover of the left edge, debouch from their hiding places and hurling themselves headlong into battle as well.  They'd run out of arrows, probably, but most likely they finally had realised – as he'd done before – that a break-through of the orcs on this side was imminent; and he watched them die, oneafter another, and futilely, knowingly, they sacrificed their lives, for they couldn't really believe they would last long against their enemies so numerous.

"Soon enough you will lack warriors on the right side as well, Elrond!" Saruman thought, coolly and indifferently assessing the situation, while a warm feeling of triumph started to pulse through his veins. 

"Why don't you part company with some of your fighters, Elrond? Do you fear my orcs will breach their way to Rivendell without you being able to stop them? Yes, I think it's this line of thought keeping you back, but sooner or later you'll have to give the command from which you still shrink back right now.

You and I, we both know that your plan to defeat the orcs in a surprise attack has failed, though not through your failure, but your minority. And you and I, we both will watch now how your people's abolition, slowly, one elf after another, and I hope you will not fall too early, not until you've seen your defeat with our own_ eyes, for this will be a revenge sweeter than anything I can think of to punish you for trying to spoil my plans."_

The moment came when Elrond could not wait any longer to divide the forces of his warriors, although he knew very well he was going to critically enfeeble the troop obstructing the passage to Rivendell. Too weak now was his left edge, too urgent the looks he got from his subleaders, and too imminent  the breakthrough of the orcs on the left side for him to abstain from the corresponding command any longer.

Once more the elvenking surveyed the band of warriors gathered around him, relieved to see that most of them had survived thus far – the Valar speed you – and finally rested on Aragorn, on Gandalf, and his sons for a few seconds. Yes, all of them still fought as if they didn't know what was going on behind their backs, what had been initiated, slowly, yet undeniable… And still there were those two wood elves, attacking the orcs, blindly raging among them like wounded wild boars, Legolas Greenleaf, prince of Mirkwood, and his protector, Mardin...  Although he'd many reasons to doubt the motifs of these two strange elves – heaven only knew what was going on in the stubborn heads of these two (and the ones of the whole band of wood elves, anyway) – but he didn't doubt their fighting strength, not for a single second.

Elrond inhaled deeply. Perhaps he would beat the odds and sustain the middle front against the orcs even with a smaller number of warriors, outstanding and battle-scarred as they were… 

The hell, they just had to succeed! And like Saruman had expected previously, he shouted a short command, ringing clearly over the uproar of the battle; and some of the elves behind him departed immediately, to stand up to their enemies somewhere else. 

**IV. **

What the wood elf Mardin fought for was indeed difficult to say. Being much older than most of his fellow elves, his background was veiled in an impenetrable darkness, a darkness he never cared to enlighten, even when the wine had loosened his tongue, rarely enough as it happened, and only after a battle had taken place. There weren't many left that had grown up with him, and so most wood elves just knew him as the old, scared warhorse he'd always been, true-blue, worried like a mother hen about the soldiers under his command, always present where difficulties were to be encountered – and yet he was strange to them, since they didn't know what he lived and fought for, or what was going on in this old head of his.

Was he fighting for the wood elves' sake? There weren't many left of them to fight for. For his homelands? They'd been lost and devastated. For good? The expression of his eyes clearly denied this assumption, even though his face betrayed nothing of the angry feelings that blazed through him, never ceasing, merciless, and which shattered the fundaments of his being - and their core was guilt. He, who'd considered himself as the protector of the king's family (and often enough Thranduil had characterised him being just that, half laughing, half seriously) carried the guiltiness of failure with him since the unholy second Thranduil had died. Neither the father, nor his sons he'd known to protect effectively. 

Yes, it was the consciousness of guilt that really drove on Mardin, although everyone would have stared at him utterly lost if he would have bared those feelings in front of others.

Mardin was an elf with high ethical principles, principles that were both his blessing and his curse, since they had brought him as far as he was today, and had enobled him, only to bring him down all the more when he didn't manage to live up to his high, oh so high claims.

Mardin had hoped to wash away his guilt with orc- blood, but now he realised that this wouldn't work. The feelings of guilt still remained in his heart , and Mardin's strokes became desperate. 

But still he never forgot, despite his desperation, despite the battle that was raging on around him, to give a quick glance to the blond elf fighting near him, and which he hadn't succeed to keep from taking place into the battle – and every time he did so, he gritted his teeth in helpless anger.

**V. **

Yes, as a matter of fact he should not have taken part in the battle, Legolas Greenleaf, king of the wood elves, just having escaped being killed more closely than he probably admitted to himself; and still, no one, and nothing, had managed to restrain him from attending the battle for Rivendell – the battle against the orcs – neither Elrond's nor Gandalf´s wise words, nor Mardin's pleas – the old elf could be quite convincing if something was important enough for him to try - and least of all his own, overwhelming, physical and mental exhaustion.

Legolas - the Legolas he once had been, the quiet, reserved, yet happy elven prince, sheltered by the woods, the one which had been saved from the vast darkness by Aragorn's "Poisonous lady" and Gandalf's healing powers the last moment, and the one which had been hastily clarified about Saruman's intrigues, like all the other elves, while time was passing by merciless, and indifferent – he wasn't on the battlefield.

Only the Legolas who ached, with every fibre of his heart, to put out the flames of his anger and hate with orc-blood. 

Yes, hate was burning him, huge and hot and blazing like the fires of a lighthouse, and guided every move he made, lending him strength and skills matching even those of Aragorn and Elrond,  and he raged among the orcs like a wolf among lambs, remarkably unimpressed by the  looming defeat of the elves; which he probably was since he didn't fight for the rescue of Rivendell, but against the orcs – and a 2nd demon that was struggling for his soul beside the hate: and this was the demon of sadness. 

Oh, he'd been small in the beginning, veiled in the prince's subconsciousness, patiently luring for his chance, which he got soon enough, for he grew with every orc Legolas slay, with every stroke he carried out, until his voice became louder than the song of hate his blood was singing, and he'd won the fight the second Legolas understood that the killing of orcs, the revenge he'd lived for thus far, wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change anything at Thranduil's death, at the useless dying of so many of his people, or at the helpless sadness shattering his soul, and the emptiness of his heart – and least of all it would bring him back his old life. Driven from paradise he was, Legolas now understood, and a castoff from paradise he would remain.

The realisation did not exert a paralysing influence on Legolas, as it might would have been the case with a human, on the contrary, the orcs came to taste his renewed strength, but the prince's mind it did paralyse, painting a black hole where the future could have been, until it finally made any thought of survival meaningless, or even painful, and Legolas' fighting turned from courageous to reckless.

**VI. **

„How many warriors did you lack for the rescue of Rivendell?" Saruman reflected; and with no small satisfaction he observed the progressing defeat of the elves in front of his eyes. "Maybe fifty? Yes, I think if you'd commanded additional fifty warriors, you would have been able to turn the page. Thirty of them to support your left edge, twenty on the other side – where the orcs will be victorious soon enough, though their number has been seriously reduced  – and you would have been able to lead your people to victory. So few fighters you have, Elrond, and still you have assigned ten of them just to guard me? I'm almost touched that you take me for so dangerous... But soon enough the time will come when you´ll have to withdraw my minders in order to re-enforce your disintegrating left line of defense. Or your fallen one, as I might say more accurately. Soon you're desperate enough to do so, although you know very well that I immediately will be beyond your control, as sure as a bird will escape any four legged animal of prey.

Soon enough you will withdraw them –  I know the line of your thoughts very well , elven king – hoping that you still will be able to stop the raid of orcs in Rivendell – a treacherous hope, as you soon will see, as treacherous as green river ice in spring.

But still you're more tenacious than I gave you credit for. Congratulations, Elrond. I thought you would call them back much earlier…" 

Saruman's eyes never ceased to follow Elrond's proud figure while he thought so, like the elves surrounding him did, at least the inexperienced ones, and in their otherwise so stoical faces nervousness started to show.

From now and then one of them cast a sorrowful glance over his shoulder. The hellish noise of battle – or the course it took, as it was discernible from far  – seemed to shake them pretty deeply, for indeed it couldn't escape their notice how bad the circumstances really were. 

But all of them were good soldiers. Their commander had asked them to take orders; and they would do so, even against their own conviction, even against their own will. They would hold out until Elrond called them into battle, or they would die guarding him.

**VII. **

The command that would have freed Saruman from his minders indeed had already been on the tip of Elrond's tongue; the moment he was desperate enough to risk even the escape of the white wizard, but he didn't get around to giving it, for he lost track of Saruman when a pack of orcs assailed him and his fighters, orcs more numerous, and more unscathed than it was entirely desirable, their arms combatively risen – a serious threat for him as well as for the fading forces of his combatants, even more so since two of them carried arms that suspiciously looked like crossbows, crossbows that already were drawn. 

The elven king gave them no further time to approach. A swift pressure from his tights, a soft battle-cry, heard by no one but himself, and his horse dashed away, carrying him immediately among the orcs. He'd slain two of them before they could even think of defending themselves, taken by surprise by his foolhardy attack, but still the rest of them turned out to be only too alert, for now two of the warriors fighting right beside him, exhausted, smeared with blood, fell the same second; and Elrond knew for sure that at least one of them had cockled himself in front of an arrow which had been aimed at him. It was a deliberate, selfless sacrifice, cutting Elrond to the quick, all the more since he knew that it was going to be unsung, and unhonored most likely, with  no one alive to give testimony. The killer of his saviour died only seconds later, and Elrond, his face now contorted in anger, thwarted the next orcs, and killed many of them, always accompanied by the awesome feeling that for every orc he killed two new ones emerged to replace him, as if they originated from the head of a Medusa that gives birth to two snakes at the place one was decollated.

The certainty about the elves' defeat came casually, not as a violent shock. It didn't bring much pain with it, only a silent melancholy, at the most, that everything had to end like this – in a defeat against the most ugly, most cruel creatures that had befouled Middle-Earth with their presence ever.

**VIII. **

Saruman´s waiting for the recall of his minders would have been in vain, since Elrond, now immediately fighting for his life, was no longer in a position to give the appropriate command; but anyway, it didn´t matter anymore, for now the battle itself was catching up with the guardians.

A couple of elves fighting at the right edge had been pushed back by the orcs more and more, always straight into his, Saruman´s direction, and in the beginning he´d observed these movements suspiciously – by no means he wanted to become involved in the battle – but in the end this mistrust quickly had changed into an ominous anticipation, when the elvish warriors, which obviously had ran out of arrows long ago, went down one after another.

Their fall wasn´t lost to his minders, of course, but doggedly, like well educated staghounds, they never averted their stinging eyes from him, and it was only in theincreasing amount of edgy movements of their horses one could assess the elves´nervousness that had been conferred to the sensible animals.

"Come here, my orcs!" Saruman silently thought, or merely commanded, while he felt goose-flesh starting to cover his body, and all his senses vibrated in newly arisen tension. "Come here! Here's more elvish flesh for you to feast on!" 

And they came, a whole pack of orcs, probably more than twenty warriors, as if they had heard him, as if they wouldn't just do what their cruel minds told them to - and this was killing, killing everything that didn't look like an orc; and then the moment arrived at which even the elves guarding him could no longer remain in their position – some of them turned, and the first arrows flew through the air, hitting the assailants with vertiginous security, and most likely the elves would have been able to deal with these enemies, if they hadn't been followed by even more orcs, orcs that had realised that a breakthrough in the middle might be not impossible, but expensive, since it would claim a high blood token. There seemed to be less dangerous ways…

Then the first orcs reached their enemies, forced them to drop their bows, to fight on with their swords, and when one of his most pertinacious minders, whose bow was still aimed at Saruman, unfaltering, fell from his horse stertorously, with an orc-spear deeply embedded in his back,  the last guardians of the wizard turned their back on him and started to fight for their lives, and doom took it's course, for Saruman, the white wizard, was now free, free to enjoy the victory the orcs gained for him, free to take Elrond's ring, free to reign over vast amounts of middle-earth and free to form it according to his wishes. 

Saruman wasn't in a hurry to retreat from the battle. Coolly he observed how his guardians – after an embittered resistance – were slain one after another, and then he averted his eyes, as if being bored from the look, in order to spot Elrond's tall figure on the battlefield once more. He did not even bother to look down when an elf, pierced by a crossbow's arrow, fell down directly under his horse's nose and almost made it jump. Perhaps the king of the elves had managed to survive thus far, and he would provide a precious hostage when he was going to try and get Galadriel's ring. If Elrond had managed to stay alive that long… On the first glance Saruman could not discern him in the crush of the battle – still there were fierce duels taking place everyhere – and while he stifled a curse between his teeth his gaze fell, though not on Elrond's face, still on familiar, and grimly resolute ones, hardly recognisable under all the blood and grid covering them, and these familiar elves directed their horses straight towards him, followed by some other warriors, giving them rear cover. 

For a moment Saruman felt the blood rushing to his head, and his instinct urged him to instantly leave this place, but then he acknowledged the assuring presence of some orcs, yelling hideously triumphant beside him, and he restrained himself.

"Well, Legolas Greenleaf" he thought. "As well as you, shadow of the king, Mardin! Do you really believe you'll still be able to stop me, now that my victory is forthcoming? Two, three futile** elves against me, Saruman, the White? I almost pity you, since you're virtually challenging your own death, you fools…"**

And he waited, until Greenleaf and his captain were just some meters away, then he abruptly lifted his right hand for a spell, a deadly one, as it was mirrored in his eyes – and let it drop again, when one of the orcs beside him, gathered to catch their breath, snarled something. He obviously was their leader, and he sounded daring, even aggressive. "You're right." Saruman agreed, gently, while there was a yellow light in the depths of his eyes. "I'll leave them to you. Make sure that none of them survives. Especially the yellow haired one. Kill him. Kill them all." 

He said it emotionless, far away from the hate he once would bear against a little hobbit foiling his essorant plans. No, Saruman did not hate Legolas, the elf which, completely unaware, had become a central figure in all his doings. He was only another hindrance on his way to the realisation of his dreams, and thus had to be abolished. "Kill them all." He repeated, while he was withdrawing from battle. He wouldn't come into an elf's focus of vision again.

The last thing he saw was a black ring of orcs concentrating around Legolas and his three companions. 

**IX. **

Then a sword grazed his left shoulder, and while an abrupt wave of adrenalin was flushing through his body, mobilising still new, hidden forces –Valar alone knew where they came from – Elrond looked around like someone awaking from a long, deep sleep, and he realised that all his nightmares had started to assume definitive shapes; for the elves gave way, gave way, while the orcs gathered their scattered forces, and although he still parried the next sword strokes aimed to take his life, and even dashed to pieces the spear that missed his left side just by a hair´s breath, the effort almost seemed him too much now, and he reflected if a cruel fate meant him to live through the fall of Rivendell from start to finish, or if it showed him the mercy to let him die before.

**X. **

And then something happened wherewith neither Elrond, nor Saruman, and not even Gandalf had anticipated, and it changed the fate of Rivendell.

To be continued...

**To SpaceVixenX: **Legolas? Who´s Legolas? Ah, you mean the guy I forgot in the dungeon… 

(Just kidding, of course, for I´m happy to announce that he has his reappearance in this chapter, since, coincidentally, he´s my favourite character as well…)

**To Hypy: **Me neither! (Talking of reviews, of course J)

**To Tapetum lucidum: **Evil Saruman a teenager? Well I don´t know about your teenage years, but I was always good and friendly and never moody, in short, the pure opposite of the White WizardJ! About the civil war of elves: I was  glad as well that it could be avoided. Had to kill more than enough elves thus far in benefit of the story!

**Author´s note: **Hope you enjoyed this chapter (I managed another cliffhanger, yes, yes, yes!)

And now be a good reader and leave the hard working author and her equally hard working beta-reader **Elise **a nice little review with your treasured opinion!!!

If you do so, I promise to update more often (which means every third week in my language… but considering the fact I started this story more than a year ago, you´ll agree that this will be very fast!!!)


	15. The Last Victory of the Elves

(Author's note: I'm sorry about the displacement of some text lines. I tried x times to corrige it, without success...)

15. The Last Victory of the Elves

****

    
    Beside him Mardin was swearing under his breath, not with vehemence but with resignation, and the two elvish warriors behind them stopped dead in their tracks, after they too had caught sight of the numerous orcs advancing against them menacingly.

Still Legolas paid no attention to his companions, for he only had eyes for Saruman, the White Wizard, whom he instinctively knew to be guilty of all the misery that had befallen the wood elves, and whom he fiercely hated and still feared as someone who's motives he couldn't see through, and who yielded more power than every other living creature he ever came to meet.

Legolas clutched the haft of his last remaining knife so forcefully that his fingers ached in protest, and mesmerized, as if bound by a forcefull spell, he watched Saruman riding from the battlefield, slowly, proud and upright, and unchallenged, as if he was completely unconcerned about the following events, and unaffected by the doom of the elves, or worst of all, as if he saw no reason in fearing them any longer. 

This last disrespect of the elves, which Saruman so vividly demonstrated herewith, woke an anger in 

Legolas so strong that his throat constricted and his vision clouded. 

"You've lost, elf!" Something within the retreating back of the wizard woke the memory of the words Saruman once had directed at him, sneeringly, filled with malice, when he'd been put into Elrond's prison, and again they were resounding in his head now. "You've lost, elf!" and finally Legolas understood that Saruman was going to be proven correct, and neither his nor any other elf's strength would suffice to hinder his escape. 

In the last passing days Legolas had suffered more personal tragedies than in his whole long life before: His father's death, the poisoning of his brother, the destruction of his people, and his inabiltiy to warn the Rivendell-elves in time; but still none of them had hurt him more than the one he accepted when he had to let Saruman go unhindered, after he'd believed him into elvish custody.

Yes, too helpless, too powerless he was to prevent the wizard's escape – this final realisation brought angry tears into his eyes, caused him to shiver like someone unexpectedly caught in a cold breeze, and a sudden illness grew in his stomach so strong that his throat seemed to be laced up by invisible, and hostile hands.

Almost reluctantly Legolas averted his eyes from his deadly enemy and awaited the orcs, with a strange mixture of rising fear – far too many of them were attacking for the elves to really stand a chance of surviving - and the odd satisfaction that there were more, and still more orcs for him to kill, or, just in case he wasn't successfull enough in doing the latter, that they would put a quick end to all his pain, his doubts and the nameless torture that was corroding his personality like a parasite sucking its victim, from the inside, leaving nothing but an empty bodily shell.

Then, when the first orcs came within reach, Legolas' last thoughts were lost, giving way to the instincts of every good warrior and making him forget everything except for the movements of his swordarm and the will to kill any enemy before being killed himself.

The first orc facing up to him was still young, as far as one could judge at the sight of his ugly mug. The grin laying bare his yellowish tusks revealed anxiety rather than fear, as if he was secretly afraid of the elf he was pitted against, and he had every reason to be, for in his inexperience he raised his sword too high as he ran towards the elves, and Legolas had stabbed him with his knife into his right flank, before he even had a chance to try and attack his enemy. The strangely contorted smile stayed frozen on his lips when he fell, so fast that Legolas had to use all his agility to draw back his knife out of the falling body in time. 

His next victim did not cause him significantly more trouble, since he obviously did not know if he should attack Legolas or Mardin first. The elven prince put him out of his misery by a fast stab against his insufficiently protected throat, and in disgust he flinched back when a splash of blood broke from the wound and smeared his face and the upper part of his body.

It passed off swiftly, the killing, without effort, and probably too effortlessly, for then, as if Legolas had used up all his fortune of war with this two swift victories in duel, as if the gods of war would now turn their backs on him indifferently, he was wounded, by a badly aimed, and overhasted stroke, and there was nothing heroic in the way he was overcome, as it often is the case with even outstanding warriors; that they are defeated by someone who is not on a par with them, and under circumstances which do not constitute the material for a hero's ballad. 

The stroke slashed Legolas' arm lengthwise.

Slowly the pain penetrated the elf's consciousness, warily feeling its way like the hands of a blind man, and only hesitantly it got through the clouds of furiousness and desperation overshadowing the prince's soul. Then it was there, entwining Legolas' arm like thousands of red-hot cobwebs, and it brought a stertorous sound into his throat and blurred the silhouettes of his enemies. The elf didn't see the blood flowing freely from the wound, but strangely enough he felt its taste in his mouth, the one of iron, danger, and approaching death, and his arm fell.

Some say that in the few remaining seconds before death the dying sees images of the past, memory tatters disappearing as fast as they come into existence, but Legolas experienced no such thing.

He did not feel any ruefullness or sorrow, or grief either, that he was about to die in such a useless way. The only thing he felt right now was some kind of incredulous fury about the fact that the muscles of his right arm refused to work any longer, and that his fingers, tightly clenched around the knife (the hilt they spanned had already become slippery with blood), had started to loosen against his will, against his efforts. 

His weapon dropped to the floor with a metallic, and definite sound, and Legolas finally lifted his head to pay his victorious opponent the appropriate attentiveness, if much too late, when he lifted his weapon to a deadly strike, while his face was contorted in grim satisfaction. Legolas didn't flinch when the sword came down.

****

Under loud and jarring cawing they leaked out, the screekers, and angry like irascible wasps they fluttered around the trees, on which they had been observing the happenings of the battle with their cold, black and soulless eyes. 

Saruman's spies, that had often rendered him valuable services in the past, would have been of inestimable value to him also here, at the battle for Rivendell, for with their current strange behaviour they clearly betrayed to any attentive observer, that something exceptional, and disturbing, was happening at the forest's edge. 

But this time no wizard was there to benefit from their pefidious attitude; and the birds' voices were lost in the rough cries of the fighting elves and orcs, the shrill neighing of the horses and the riot of battle, and they did not betray the raid of the second elves' army bursting out from the wood, their bright and many-voiced battlecry was swallowed by the noise of war, and even the singing of their bows.

But if there was something neither elf nor orc could ignore, then it were the black-feathered arrows that found their way into equally black hearts suddenly anew, overcoming the orcs irately and mercilessly like a swarm of hornets the incatious wanderer damaging their nest, and like him the orcs didn't know what was happening to them.

The arrows brought quick death, or at best, confusion and the stealthy poison of panic among the orcs, and they were dropping like flies with a surprised growl in their throat, and the new army of elves cleared a path of destruction through their rows; like a bright mercurial mountain stream it was penetrating their black floods; and renewed the strengths of Elrond's warriors.

The first orcs that had survived this unexpected attack, betook themselves to flight into the north.

****

Finally Elrond became aware of these events, too, and he raised his head, like someone listening intently, while reigning up his horse; and unlike his confused enemies he knew to assess what was happening, and a smile; bright as the sun banishing rain clouds; was suddenly illuminating his face, his eyes again shone keen and bright, as people were used to seeing him, and cool like a fresh breeze from the sea he felt new energy flow into his members.

Saruman would have assessed the second army of the elves aright, too, had he still been on the battlefield; as opposed to the orcs he at once would have been awake to the insight that there was no army at all, in the true sense of the word; since fifty elves, at the most, accounted for it, a fact that its leader tried to hide by letting his riders attack in small but rather numerous rows, a tactic that had already been appreciated by Elrond; if only mentally, since it bestowed upon them an almost checkless push; and the more than usual delicate figures, and the slightly smaller bows of the new elvish fighters would not have been lost on him – but Saruman had already turned away from the battlefield, a severe mistake he wasn't aware of yet; and that would cost him more than he could anticipate. 

For guideless were the orcs without his mind, sharp like a new razor blade, to support them; and there was no one to convince them not to fear the attacking female elves, about fifty or sixty in number, in reality hardly strong enough to stand their ground against a fistful of wargs, allowing them to gain an arbitrative role in the battle for Rivendell; even though they were not feared for themselves, but for the reinforcement the orcs had to suspect behind them in the impervious wood; and for the first time it began to show what Gandalf later was going to say to a little hobbit: That even the weak could decide the fate of strong ones, when their time has come.

****

Reckless and strong and still graceful they have been, the female wood elves, and as merciless deadly as a panther defending it's young, it would be written in the stories men were going to recount to each other over the fateful day on which the battle for Rivendell had taken place, and they and their bows are said to be the reason, so the stories know to give account further, why Elrond and his warriors finally succeeded to besiege the orcs, thus contributing decisively to the salvation of the "last homely house"; and the hearts of many young lads might have skipped a beat when these martial amazons out of the woods were mentioned.

But these stories were far away, oh so far away, from mirroring what really had happened on that clearing in Rivendell then, for there are no adequate words to describe what their Pyrrus-victory had demanded from the elves in form of blood and suffering, and generously it missed out the victims the elvish people had to bewail at the end of all its struggles.

Yes, very different from the glorious stories it had been then, less heroic, and darker, more bloody, for in spite of the help Elrond had received suddenly and unexpected, the elves still had a difficult stand, enfeebled as they were, and the orcs to whom a flight was made impossible through one of Elrond's troups or the female elves, did defend themselves with the vehemence of someone on the death row, already facing his hangman, and they had to be brought down, one after another, in a bloody and laboured slaughter that still claimed victims among the elves, for the orcs were dangerous even in defeat, like a dying monster that's tearing apart some of his conquerors with his last convulsions of death. 

In vast numbers they lost their life, the Rivendell-elves, slowed down by their exhaustion, having lost their last weapons in fight, the wood elves, for their arsenal had not been adequate even at the beginning of the battle, and the female wood elves, whose longbows had not been designed for the black and ugly wild they were hunting right now, but for graceful, lightfooted game, and whose experience in fighting – even though their life in the mirkwood was rough on occasion – was not enough to stand one's ground in such a struggle. 

Yes, from a glorious victory no elf would have spoken then, when finally the last orc's death cries were resounding over the battlefield, and least of all Elrond, whose horse had been killed at the last second by one of the last surviving orc leaders by an insidious flourish opening the belly of the poor beast. 

The elvenking finally pulled his sword out of the body of his last fallen enemy, and held it high in the air, while he gave an elvish cry of victory that simultaneously was his command for the survivors of the four parts of the elvish army to collect themselves, but then he leaned himself upon his sword, breathing heavily, his face covered with dry blood from an ugly wound at his hairline, as if he was too exhausted to stand on his own; and a few endless minutes he remained like this, motionless, his face like carved from stone, the eyes cold and distant and dangerous, so that even to his subleaders, gathering around him on his sign, he seemed strange, and they did not dare to address him. 

They did choose wisely not to do so, for Elrond fought a heavy struggle with himself this very moment, and he needed all his strength, mentally and physically, to overpower the darkness that was overshadowing his mind like cold november mist overshadowing late autumn, and he searched for strength, deep down in his soul, to finally lift his head and watch over the fields of destruction that were streching out around him, covered with the bodies of those he loved; and whose lives had been entrusted to him.

His subleaders had already started to exchange nervous glances, and one of his twin sons, Elrohir, who'd sustained a nasty wound at his shoulder, was getting ready to approach him, though still retained by his brother, when the king of the Rivendell elves raised his head again, his face a pale mask, and threw away his sword, disgustedly, as if sickened by the blood that still stuck to it; and while he did so he looked around, as if awakening, and noticed the sea of questioning, apprehensive, pale and bloodied faces around him, Aragorn's, Gandalf's, his sons', and the ones of many Rivendell or wood elves. Yes, all around him they stood, to whom his heart and life belonged, and their faces were marked by the horror they'd seen, but still they were alive, so alive, and while he watched them, his expression started to turn back to his normal energetic, vibrant and warm self; and again he raised his arm, his right fist now tightly clenched, and he shouted a cry of triumph into the noontime sky; the one that had accompanied the elvish people through every battle they could remember, and some of the other elves joined his call; and not effervescent was their jubilation, but tired, filled with grief for those who had remained on the battlefield, a grief that quickly started to fill their hearts, now that the first shock of the battle had worn off. 

****

The blade advanced, fast and deadly, like the head of a testy viper, and well, all too well it hit its intended target, laterally embedding itself into the throat of its victim, dampening its death cry into a stertorous gurgle, when warm blood suddenly filled ist trachea, suffocating any other sound. Then a skillful hand turned the blade, stuck in the wound, and then draw it back, and another splash of blood gushed forth from the now horribly gasping wound it had opened. The now deadly wounded was forced to stagger back a few trembling steps by a rude kick, before his strength finally left him and he sank to the floor –face down- and didn't move any longer, even though a puddle of blood had begun to form under his body, silently, and its movements gave him a grotesque air of life.

Legolas just stood there, his left hand protectively edged over his right arm, and tried to squint away the veil of sweat and tears the pain had laid over his eyes, making it difficult for him to see what was happening around him, something he managed to do quite tolerably, but to the veil of wearyness, exhaustion and disavowed agony that had fallen over his mind he had nothing to oppose, at least not for long. 

But still long enough for him to understand that he still was alive, and that his knife was lying right in front of his feet, where it was waiting, invitingly, its silver stained in red, and instinctively Legolas bent down to reach for it – maybe it was just his knees giving way under him, he couldn't really say – but then his perception became blurred, his whole body was suddenly covered in cold sweat, while his right arm exploded in an almost insane pain; and with a small gasping sound Legolas sank down. 

But although a merciful darkness was now closing over him, as fast as the lid of a coffin on a deceased, he still felt someone building up beside him, legs apart, someone strong and non-relocatable like a very old rock, then he didn't see and feel anything more, although he never really lost consciousness, and the riot of the battle arround him ebbed down to the silent humming of insects filling the clearings on bright summer evenings. 

Mardin, the protector of the king's family, who had just saved his life, stood over him, big and cruel and invincible this day, and he was defending the faint of his prince against anyone approaching him, and anyone who'd done so would have sworn that the eyes of the old warhorse had been shining in a clear, happy light, and that he, while he was slaying his enemies, was singing a silent, yet airy song, a bright tune that was telling of the spring's begin in the mirkwood. 

****

Of the elves, only Mardin seemed to have lost nothing of his reserved attitude, for he stood there, upright, with calm earnest, seemingly untouched by all the frenetic aleation around him, and so he held out, while Legolas Greenleaf, prince of mirkwood sat in the grass, resting against his legs, his face ashen, the eyes strangely uninvolved, his clothes torn and bloody at the right side of his upper torso, and over him Mardin protectively held hand and sword, and at close range one could see that his face wore a calm, even detached expression.

That was how Elrond found the two of them.

****

"Legolas Greenleaf! Greenleaf!" A shadow was towering over him, grabbing him roughly at his shoulders, shaking him. "Greenleaf!" The urging voice penetrated his mind, like splinters of fragile glass, and Legolas frowned. The man's grip hurt him, and he opened his mouth to say so, but no words were formed in his throat, so he decided to open his eyes instead. With quite some effort he eventually suceeded to focus his gaze on his tormentor, and when he noticed the apprehension in his features, he forgave him, even tried a smile, mechanically, with no heart in it, but still this didn't seem to disturb his opposite, for his efforts were rewarded with a relieved exclamation. "Greenleaf! At last! I already thought you..." 

Legolas stopped smiling. It hurt. One of his lids was twitching. He was tired, so bone tired, and a dull fire seemed to burn his right arm from the inside, sucking every remaining bit of strength out of him. But there was an urgent thought that had stuck itself in his brain, and sometime later he managed to phrase it. "Saruman? Orcs?" He loathed the thin sound of his voice but Elrond, who had never let go of his shoulder, had heard him very well.

"We have won." he said. "They've been vanquished, and your people are avenged." 

Legolas showed his teeth, in another attempt to smile that failed miserably. "That's what you think, Lord Elrond." a small voice in his head said. "Do you really believe the wood elves' desire for revenge has been stilled herewith? You should know that it is insatiable as a drop of water to someone dying of thirst..." 

He didn't put his thoughts into words though, for he knew very well that Elrond's peaceableness had its roots in honest sorrow and true sympathy for the wood elves, but still the elvenking, who never averted his eyes from him, seemed to read some of his hatefilled thoughts in his mimic, for his gaze suddenly hardened, and he –at last- let go of Legolas' shoulders, and the prince sank back against Mardin's legs; a movement that flared up the fires in his arm anew and alluringly called for the shadows of yet another unconsciousness.

Then a mug of water was held to his lips – Elrond could be provident like a mother if he wanted to – and if he directed his entire attention, or even affection, on someone, that much Legolas noticed know, then it was difficult to escape the elvenking's almost radiant charisma, and after a first reaction time – too fresh was still the memory of Saruman's try to poison him – he drank, and he choked on it and coughed, but the effects of the reviving liquid didn't fail him, as it brought back the prince's awareness of his surroundings, and Legolas suddenly understood that he sat leant against Mardin's legs; in a quite unimpressive and unroyal posture; but he felt too weak to change it, maybe didn't even want to, for with the old soldier towering over him, although he did only discern him as a shadow, he felt safe there, like someone coming home after a long, long journey, seeing the first hills of his homelands afar, and he enjoyed this feeling as something he'd not felt for an eternity. 

Unreal it seemed to him in his weakened state, the smell of blood and death hanging over the battlefield, as unreal as the bodies of the fallen, laying not far from him with glassy eyes, and he didn't really see them, for like a blind man that starts to see again after living in the dark for many years, he suddenly knew what was essential: To turn one's face from darkness to the sun and search the light. 

Anxiously he looked around for the faces he knew and cared for: Wood elves' faces, Aragorn's, Gandalf's, and Elrond's, and he felt trully happy to find them alive, even though he still wasn't too sure about this for himself. A first sincere smile was warming now his face, and it expired only when his traveling gaze met the one of Merennwen Oronar, a rather small, yet slender and browsy wood elfin that had the reputation of being rather brusque – an attitude that had served her well when she'd let the female wood elves' attack against the orcs - and he saw her long hair in wild disorder, her blood reddened clothes and her sword; and her cheeks that were flowering in the color of bloodstained roses as well. 

"You've fought." He ascertained in a strange mixture of pride and resignation. 

"We did." Merennwen agreed, as a matter of fact, and she smiled. "None of us has been staying back." She said it simply, but in her voice there was the justified pride about their long odds. Legolas sighed. That's been what he had feared, too.

"But you've been ordered to do so!" Mardin interjected on the prince's behalf; and in his face both his admiration for what the elvish woman – as a commanding officer – had achieved, and his consternation about the fact she'd done such an unwomanly thing, visibly struggled; and he looked at her as if she might bite.

"Yes!" she said. "We've been told so. By prince Legolas." She gave a sidelong glance to Elrond who seemed to listen with growing unease. "But Lord Elrond had deposed him from his leading role, as you might remember." There was an almost mischiveous triumph in her voice when she continued: "Well, HE didn't give us any order concerning our participation in the war against our mortal enemies." As an afterthought she added: "Not too many of us have fallen." She sounded suddenly sad, though, when she said this, more silent than she'd spoken before, as if she was mentally recalling the faces of those who actually had, and was mourning them. 

Now it was Elrond's turn to sigh, but he knew exactly what he owed to the wood elves; and wisely he deciced not to add anything further on this subject.

"That is good." Legolas finally said, but his voice was lifeless, and his eyes started closing again. Merennwen simply nodded her agreement, while trying to hide her sorrow for the prince's obviously bad state, and provocatively bared her teeth to Elrond. 

The elvenking sighed again. He'd probably never learn to understand the wood elves. He might didn't even really want to. They only had to live!

And he flashed Merennwen one of his, rather rare, boyish smile, feeling equally boyishly pleased when he noticed that it actually reddened her cheeks to a still darker shade of red.

He smiled again, while starting to give some more orders about the organisation of the recovery of the wounded and death elves.

****

***

"It's not over yet." a dark voice said behind his back; silently, only meant to be heard by the elvenking himself, and maybe Aragorn. "It's not over yet; and it's of uttermost importance that I speak privately with you, Lord Elrond, as soon as possible." 

Gandalf, who'd not moved an inch away from Elrond since the battle had ended, had spoken up; and the hint of fear that could be detected in his usually confident voice was enough to sent a shiver down the elvenking's spine. Not that the wizard would have voiced something that was new to him, but he roused some unacknowleded, and outcrowded foreboding by doing so, and, as if finally released from some invisible chains they pitched into him, like the screekers into the cadavers of the orcs, all around the battlefield.

To be continued...

****

Author's note: Well I remember telling you that I would update more often... that was about a month ago... I'm sorry about the delay, but this was only because I had to overcome my misery of a severe case of drops in reviews... an about 200% drop (or so, I'm no luminary in maths)...I had to re-read the nice reviews of **SpaceVixenX **and **Tapetum Lucidum** and **Elise** (beta-reading once more, which was quite effort this chapter, I'm afraid. I hope you won't tell my english teachersJ ) a hundred times to get into a proper writing mood...So please, hint, hint, get me more reading stuff... and magically another chapter of this story will appear on the net someday!!! ... wait a minute... there's another review from **Hypy **as well...I maybe even hit the "fifty-reviews-mark" soon...(author's drifting away with head full of dreams of reviews!!!)


	16. A dark tale ends

****

16. A dark tale ends...

I.

Elrond remained on the battlefield while the last bodies of the fallen orcs were compiled into big dark heaps. He still was there when those pyres were set on fire, unceremoniously, and blazed up in dancing flames, and he hadn't moved much when they – finally! - expired, one after another. 

Thick, black smoke was rising from these embers, which soon hung all over the clearing, and it spread the stench of death and decay; laying itself on the elven minds like viscous, merciless quicksand that encloses its victims, tighter and tighter, until it's filling their mouths and noses and keeps them forever in its deadly embrace.

Long ago the wounded had been brought back to Rivendell, in a long, slow lineament; hardly recognisable as the proud army of elves that had left this very morning to defend their realm, and over it there hung the whole tragedy of a people that has been roped into a war against its will; to emanate from it with both visible and invisible scars; knowing very well that all its courage, bravery and readiness to make sacrifices, and even its victory, will not change anything of the fact its life will be changed forever.

A still smouldering grimy fluff was ensnarled in Elrond's hair, and while the elvenking removed it with a grimace of disgust – nothing from an orc, not even his remains he was about to tolerate on himself – he surveyed the still glowing piles of ashes, and he asked himself if they might be equivalent to what was left of elvish power in Middle-earth:

Once powerful and mighty it had been, like a blazing fire, banishing even the blackest darkness, but burned down to a heap of ashes was it now; from which no one could tell how much life was left in it. 

Would these ashes be ignited again by the winds of balefulness that now blew against the elves? Or were they doomed to be simply washed away from the memory of the other people populating Middle-Earth now, like the ashes of an abandoned campfire, when rain is falling down on it?

Gandalf's dark words had raised foreshadowing in his soul, as dark as the mist over the clearing before his eyes. 

"It is not over yet, Lord Elrond. It is not over yet.." 

Elrond felt a cold shiver running down his spine when he recalled these words; similar to what a child might feel when it is eavesdropping some adult talk not suited for small ears. 

He'd never been surprised by them, though, as if the wizard's words had only affirmed a knowledge he'd always harboured, deep in his soul: The knowledge to take part in a game in which they were not really planned to do so; or, even worse, that all their suffering and sacrifices would be proven insignificant in the end; on the stage of a great game no one really understood yet, and at which the stakes would be much higher than even the possession of the three elven rings.

Evening wind had arisen and blew cold, raising fluffs of ashes from the smouldering pyres; and like dancing orange beetles they flew through the air. Elrond's gaze came to rest upon them; and it was this very evening that the sorrow for his people began to outweigh his love for Rivendell or Middle-Earth; and the decision to leave his homelands was ripening in him, for he knew inside his heart that no wrench could be as painful ever as the dying of so many of his people had been today.

****

II.

Gandalf repeated his request for a private counsel with the elvenking, as soon as Elrond returned from the battlefield together with the last elvish warriors being occupied there, and this time, though overtired he was, he did not refuse to meet it.

What the wizard had to tell him were the first coarse rules of the great game he'd feared had already begun, and from which Gandalf knew nothing more but the stake, and some of the players of the opposite team. None of the words Gandalf addressed at him this evening did scare him more, though, than the fact that he detected a hint of insecurity, or even fear, in the wizard´s grey eyes, as if he was talking about the dark myths of the far North that were only narrated in a hushed voice, just as if the game had to be feared even by him, the mighty grey wizard.

****

III.

Like long filamentous water plants light was penetrating the darkness of his deathlike, deep and dreamless sleep; and it was there soft swaying that finally brought him back to consciousness. He woke; and it was like going up from a deep dark well, where light is bashing over one's head when one is breaking through the water surface, returning to brightness and air; and he opened his eyes.

Doing so was a painful experience, and the floating light did hurt his eyes, as if he were one of these creatures of the darkness that only anticipate the existence of the sun, and suddenly, unexpectedly get caught in full sunlight one day; and he gasped for air, for like someone moving through thin air his throat constricted with the oppressive feeling of lack of oxygen, and deeply, deeply he inhaled while he looked into the light that filled his heart with boyish cheerfulness, without him really knowing why.

"Elwyne! Elwyne!" Someone was reaching for his hand and clutched it. "Elwyne!" 

The few syllables resounded in his head, and he even understood them, but still

his lethargic mind needed quite a while to really get their meaning; and when he opened his mouth to answer to the urgent calls he noticed that his throat was actually too dry to do so. He fell silent and coughed a little; while warm light was drawing squiggles on his cheeks and upper body and made him shiver with happiness.

"Elwyne!" He noticed both an inquiring and a scared note in the way his name was pronounced, and the pressure of the hand enclosing his intensified, to an almost painful degree, and now Elwyne really would have liked to say something in return, if he only had been able too, but still no words formed in his throat, only a hoarse cawing, sounding more like young ravens calling for feed than an melodious elvish voice.

Fortunately his croaking was interpreted correctly this time, and a jug of cool fresh water was held to his lips. Elwyne took two or three hasty sips; maybe too hasty, for his stomach ached in protest, and he turned away his head. 

Still the water had refreshed him; and he finally found back to the use of his language, and even managed to co-ordinate his gaze thus far that his surrounding stopped spinning around him. Hoarsely, as if he'd never been used to speaking at all, he asked: "Legolas?"

His thoughts were still as slow as viscous plump, but then two or three further gulps of water were inflicted on him, causing his head to lighten, and finally the face of his brother, sitting beside him and grasping his hand, started to assume a definitive shape.

"Legolas!" Elwyne repeated, proud of having recognised his brother, while fatigue had started to reach for him with its leaden fingers once more, and his eyes started closing again. 

"You look as if you'd been tussling with some mirkwood spiders, little brother!"

"Just wait until you see yourself in the mirror!" Legolas answered, and there was some laughter and some tears in his voice. "Just wait!" Elwyne had only strength left for one of his famous mocking smiles and a mumble before he fell asleep again, but its familiarity was enough to melt some of the ice surrounding his brother's heart. Yes, Elwyne had achieved far more with his few words than he probably knew; like saving Legolas' soul, for in his brother's heart, encrusted with dark black ashes, they'd ignited a spark, a small, but a promising one, that eventually would grow to a fire once again.

.

And Elwyne slept, but deep, and untroubled now, for he'd fallen into the healing sleep of convalescence, something that was not lost on his brother, and in a sudden jolt of joy Legolas had to leap up to get his emotions under control suddenly threatening to overwhelm him ever since he'd witnessed the awakening of his brother, and so intense was his joy that at least one of his family had survived (and would live, though crippled) that it made him forget the pain that flashed through his arm at this careless move.

The whole night as well as the following morning Legolas sat at his brother´s side, and seldom turned an eye from him, but Elwyne did not regain consciousness again, and finally Legolas had to leave him, with much reluctance though, for he, too, had been invited to Elrond's hastily summoned 2nd meeting, taking place any minute now, in order to talk about things he'd rather have hushed up, while the words he really wanted to say, like "good bye" to his last surviving brother remained unspoken, and sad was the last look Legolas cast at his resting brother, as if he already knew they weren't going to see each other for a long, long time.

****

IV.

A breathtaking experience awaits the one entering a tropical rain forest for the first time in his life. The very moment the forest's green luxuriant canopy closes over his head, myriad mosses, ferns, flowers, tendrils and trees are competing for his attention, and hundreds of smaller and bigger animals are contributing further to the overwhelming impression of flourishing life.

But in any of these observers (or intruders) lingering there just a little longer (even if he's almost drunken with beauty) some nondescript uneasiness will start to rise, only irritating first, but soon taking almost haunting dimensions, without him being able to really define it. Only much later he'll begin to understand that it is the scent of decay oppressing his mind, and he'll discover that passing, putrefaction and death are hidden only insufficiently behind pulsating life.

The circle of birth and death is nowhere as tightly interwoven as here, where luxurious life exists right beside rotting death, and where transience is lurking darkly – and they might have felt like this, the participants of Elrond's 2nd council, taking place the 2nd day after the last victory of the elves, for seldom more serious guests have been welcomed in Rivendell, as if its beauty too, had started to fade to translucence, no longer able to veil the fact that the "last homely house" might be doomed to fall in ruins, abandoned by the elves.

And especially the elves seemed to be afflicted with the depressed atmosphere and were apathetically like humans under too much heat, for "transience" was something they did not understand.

Gandalf was there, filled with restless and nervous energy, and Elrond, calmer now (the decision to leave Rivendell had taken roots in his heart), and Mardin and Legolas from the wood elves, from which the latter was wearing his right arm in a sling and the ring of his father around his neck, on a fine necklace, for the fingers of his right hand were still too swollen to do so. 

There were other, more unexpected attendees, though: Boromir, having heard from of Rivendell's distress while already on his journey home, and instantly returning to stand by the elves in the hope of finding more open ears within them for his people's pleas; as well as the delegation of dwarves that had already participated at the first of Elrond's councils, for they had not left Rivendell yet. 

Probably the most strange and unexpected participants, though, were two of these childlike creatures Gandalf had brought with him upon his last arrival. Since the grey wizard had not lost a single word about their involvement in the matters of elves, dwarves and man thus far, they were eyed with quite some curiosity, and, judging by the nervousness the two hobbits vainly tried to hide, they weren't too sure about their whereabouts in this 2nd counsel of Elrond themselves, too. There was not much time for greeting formalities (different to the first counsel, where the elaborate speeches and greeting rituals especially among the elves had lasted what seemed like an eternity) anyway, for now Elrond and his advisors had arrived, and the counsel began.

****

V.

There was not much talk about the battle against the orcs anymore, only as much as everyone understood what really had happened, for to Gandalf it seemed of great importance that especially the hobbits were informed as well.

So soon enough, and against his will, Legolas was forced to rise to speak about things he'd rather left unspoken: About his father's death and Saruman´s murderous attempt on him, trying to get at the first elven ring, and about the downfall of his people; and hasty and meagre were his words, betraying nothing about the sufferings, fears and doubts he'd felt those days (for as short they actually were, every single one of them brought back a flood of horrible memories he simply couldn't face up to, not here, not now).

But even though his voice was flat and emotionless while he spoke, his eyes were not as deep and empty like a dried up well, his heart not dead and cold as stone anymore, for he'd started, if only slowly, to care for his surroundings again, and there was no one in the round of the counsel more relieved about this than Gandalf himself, having future plans for Thranduil's son, the prince of the Mirkwood, that could not be revealed to someone out of his head with grief.

Then the word was to Aragorn, and the attention of all free people of Middle-Earth was directed on him when he gave a short summary of his and Arwen's errands in the Northern woods: How they had searched for the poisonous lady in order to heal Elwyne and thus proving Legolas' innocence (a weak smile was going over the elvenprince's face at these words, but it was quickly lost), and how they had found Sam instead, who finally opened their eyes to Saruman's crimes – the little hobbit blushed at the mention of his name- allowing them to warn Elrond about the imminent invasion of orcs in time, although the very last moment.

Now it would have been Gandalf's turn to give an account about how he'd managed to bring back both Thranduil's sons from death's treshold, now that he knew a poison from Saruman to be the true reason behind Elwyne Thornbush's coma and Legolas Greenleaf acute poisoning, but the wizard seemed unaware of all the eyes directed on him; he seemed absentminded, as if he was turning something over in his head, again and again, and only when Elrond addressed him directly the usual watchful expression returned into his eyes. 

And then the wizard talked about the big game that had started over their heads, and his gloomy words depicted a vision of coming doom, more horrible than they had ever anticipated, all the more so because the vision was not clear even to the one conjuring it up, and full of doubts that lay over it like opaque veils.

And it seemed to them as if the image of a ring, a lidless eye and Saruman, the White wizard, were running into each other to form a new image, showing both a terrible and invincible god, and this deity had many faces and was called hunger for power. 

Yes, it was blurred, the image of the game that was going to decide over Middle-Earth´s fate, but its colours were nonetheless bright and vivid and in these dark shades that literally absorb the light, whereas the image of Rivendell and the nine companions, finally being chosen as the white players in this game that had been forced upon them, faded against it like the inscriptions of the tombs on cemeteries long forgotten, and became translucent like the wings of butterflies caught in a storm.

****

VI.

There weren't many wood elves left when Legolas left for Mordor as one of the nine companions. Most of them decided to stay with Elrond's people still dwelling in Rivendell, and later followed them to Valinor, where they might have been able to forget their sufferings.

Other's weren't ready to do so yet, consumed by their longing for their homeland, the Mirkwood, and they never managed to settle in anywhere else. 

For some time they remained in the Mirkwood that had regrown (and stubbornly enough they had started to call it "Greenwood" again), but even they eventually had to accept what they had known from the beginning, deep in their hearts: That it harboured far too many horrible memories in it for them to still live there, bringing a strange weariness over them; and ceaselessly attacking their already lessened vitality. 

The elvish people had almost left Middle-Earth when the last wood elves from the Greenwood set forth to perambulate its woods, moors, meadows and grasslands one last time, in search of a new home, as the humans used to say later, but they were few, and their traces were lost in the course of time.

Their fate, though, provided a basis for the creation of tales and legends and prolonged their immortality in the memory of men that now populated Middle-Earth, for they were seen by them every now and then, if only from afar, shadowlike emerging; seeming quite unapproachable in their reserve; and incredible beauty;

leaving nothing but a kind of nondescript pain (comparable maybe only to the sentimentality that is arising if one is visiting the places of one's childhood) after their departure.

Then the reports about the wood elves become more sparse, vanished like Middle-Earth's woods when the number of men was growing, and no one ever claimed to have seen one of the "wanderers" again.

"One can not see but feel them." Mothers and grandmothers were to tell their children though; while their husbands were scolding them for telling such cock-and-bull-stories, but they too knew the places their wives were talking of: Hidden and difficult to reach they were, in the middle of the last remaining woods, incredibly beautiful, untouched, healing and enchanted, for they had to be visited again and again after they'd been discovered, having both a calming and disturbing effect at the same time because they mirror the very lost perfection the human race secretly is longing for: A Valinor beyond the shores of Valinor.

Today such tales are rarely heard, for the humans are less sensitive now; and eventually even the trees' memory of the Mirkwood elves will expire; and finally the age of men will be reigning, an age of cruelty and heroic deeds, of creation and destruction, of fortune and tears, as ambivalent as mankind itself; until one day another people comes to replace it, causing the term "human" to become as mythical as "elf", "hobbit", "dwarf" or "orc". 

****

Authors' note:

Sounds familiar, the ending of my first LoTR-fanfiction-work, doesn't it? And that's exactly what it should, for now the story will proceed as Tolkien himself wrote, with the only difference that not only Frodo but also Legolas wears a ring; and that Saruman is known to be evil from the beginning. No need for me to describe this further...

I hope you enjoyed the story... I'm sure you didn't enjoy it half as much as I did enjoy getting reviews from you, though: **Guinevere and Pencil Bob**, **Artemisa**, **Daylight**, **Sarah Lynne**, **Legilmalith**, **Legolas fan**, **SpaceVixenX**, **flame3**, **SpazzyHypy**, **Anon**, **Salak**, **blue4dogs**, **Morloth i.g. DarkAura**, **tapetumlucidum**, **zat**, **narcolinde**, **shanya **and **Elise **(who has betareaded this last chapter once more, I'm very grateful for your endurance!) ! 

Which actually makes me think of something...have you already done your boy scouts' good deed today? Not?!? Well, do you see the strange case in blue at the bottom of this text? With this equally strange "Go" button beside it? Write some words in it (they do not even have to make sense) and hit the "Go" button...and your conscience will be clear for the day!!!

(No seriously: I would be very happy if you would leave a comment for my debut feature, for I have to know if some people have read through all the stuff even if it took me more than one and half a year to publish it!)


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